


Crash and Burn

by aldora89



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, K/S Big Bang, M/M, Romance, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldora89/pseuds/aldora89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Enterprise's celebrated voyage winds down, the tension between her captain and first officer escalates, and three days aboard Jupiter's premier lunar station will change everything. Jim doesn't handle change very well. Slow-build, character-study prelude to the Lost Years and TMP.  Unhappy ending, but canon functions as a fix-it!</p><p>Written for K/S Big Bang 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> See the Livejournal master post at http://aldora89.livejournal.com/13783.html for some truly amazing art and a fanmix.
> 
> Major thanks to my betas eimeo, marlee813, and manghahabi, and my artists micathemineral, tprillahfiction, and cannedebonbon! You guys are AWESOME.

_Smoke_  
  


The acrid smell of phaser residue and singed hair suffused Jim, along with the electric thrill of a very near miss. He watched Giotto pat Ensign Landon’s blonde bun until it was merely smoking and weighed their options.

They were supposed to be a diversion for the rest of the infiltration team, but they were pinned down on all sides and couldn’t exactly redirect the unwelcome attention. Commodore Bryant might have gone rogue, but the man still knew the value of a good security team.

If it weren’t for the big, ugly fellow up on the catwalk, Scott and McCoy would have a clear path from their hiding spot behind some rubble to a ventilation duct. Ten seconds of colorless, odorless, anesthetic gas would drop everyone in this godforsaken asteroid base except Spock, who lacked the sweat glands that guaranteed absorption.

Yet said ugly fellow was about two stories above them, and pacing at his post. Hidden by scaffolding or natural rock features every other second. Attacking him would expose any would-be marksman to three other guards on the ground floor, all of whom were utterly focused on the shipping container that stood between them and Jim’s team. Jim knew they couldn’t let this go on much longer, or the mission would slip from ridiculous to dangerous.

Behind him, Spock and Giotto were debating four or five different plans, weighing the pros and cons of each, but they faded into the background. Jim fixed his awareness entirely on the distant guard. He started counting out footsteps. He adjusted his grip on the phaser. He took a deep breath and let it go, along with all the tension in his shoulders. Then he flung himself forward, planted his elbows on a storage box, aimed down the sight, and squeezed the trigger.

The guard dropped.

Three pairs of hands on his ankles yanked him backwards as the whine of phasers deafened him, and heat blasted his skin. His chin knocked against the box on the way down, jarring his teeth together. The bolts in the floor scraped through his uniform.

The moment he was safely behind cover again, he shook off his crewmates and got to his hands and knees. He glanced up at the catwalk and saw no sign of Scott or McCoy at their former hiding place.

“They made it,” Giotto told him. “I don’t think anyone noticed.” Sure enough, the duct door was ajar, and the tightness in Jim’s chest vanished beneath a fresh buzz of adrenaline.

“Nice aim, sir,” Landon murmured.

“Captain,” Spock said, tearing Jim’s attention away from the catwalk. His eyes were wide, and his brows hiked to his hairline. “The statistical likelihood of successfully executing that shot was eight hundred sixty-seven to one.”

The odds were meaningless to Jim, but the expression on Spock’s face was not. “Are you sure, Mr. Spock?” He flashed a nonchalant grin. “You’re leaving out a vital part of the equation.”

“What, precisely?”

“I really wanted to make that shot.”

Then a chemical daze smacked him clear across the face, churning his stomach and lining his body with lead, and he knew Scotty and Bones were successful. He fell in slow motion, supported by strong arms. The faint vibration of his crewmates and the guards hitting the floor around him pulsed through his back. Spock hovered over him, and a strange, muddled warmth bloomed in Jim’s throat at the sight of his first officer’s eyes, softened in unmistakable affection and amusement.

“See you soon,” he chuckled, clumsily patting Spock’s hand.

“I believe the human expression is ‘sweet dreams,’” Spock said.

Jim’s laughter carried him into the darkness on a rolling wave.

***

“Think you can stand it for a few more days?”

Ambassador Celia Brighton rested one hand on the doorway, but made no move to step inside. Jim had walked her to her cabin after sharing the new orders over dinner. They were currently diverted to pick up supplies on the way to her home planet, and she was still visibly put out by the delay.

“I think I’ll manage.” Celia turned to face him, her chandelier earrings glinting in the dim hall light. “You never know when duty calls, I suppose.”

“Some of those calls are more pleasant than others,” he said.

She fooled with a strand of her short blonde hair, and her gaze tugged over her shoulder, but stopped halfway. “It is a bit confining here, though. Especially in the evenings.”

Jim knew exactly what she was doing. He had been waiting for it all day, in fact. “Take a stroll with me?” he said, offering his elbow.

“Gladly.” She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm with a coy grin.

He led her to the arboretum, recently turned into one of Sulu’s pet projects and made all the better for the attention. Some kind of short, delicate tree was blooming, purple blossoms set into lacy dark leaves. The lighting was in night mode, so all the plants’ shadows were cast onto a background of rich blues and violets. Celia murmured her compliments, which Jim promised to pass on.

They walked at a leisurely pace for a while, talking about nothing in particular; Celia’s eagerness to go home, the success of her mission, the quality of the  _Enterprise_ ’s food as compared to less prestigious ships. She was beautiful in a generic sort of way, but with a hint of mischief in her demeanor that intrigued him. Intelligent too, and most importantly, responsive to his every flirtatious remark.

He needed this badly. He had been afflicted by a strange languor over the past few weeks, a fundamental dissatisfaction that he couldn’t pin on any one thing. Maybe it was the rumors he faced a promotion the second he set foot on Earth. Maybe just the dull routine of a starship gearing down for the last leg of her journey, six months dwindling faster than what should have been possible.

Then something Celia said made his brain trip back into the present. “I’m sorry, I might have misheard you,” he said.

“I told them it’s a wonder the Earth government can function at all when it’s run by such an irrational species.” Celia laughed. “You learn to be self-deprecating as an ambassador.”

“Ah. So my ears weren’t playing tricks.”

“I do hope I haven’t offended you, Jim.”

“No, it’s just… that’s an opinion I’m well acquainted with,” he murmured, hit with a sudden, pensive mood that lacked any real focus.

“In rhetoric more than deed, I hope.” She took it upon herself to switch topics, no doubt sensing his discomfort with the current one. Her voice quieted, and she peered at him through her eyelashes. “I’ve wondered, is it ever lonely, being the captain? You all have such nomadic lifestyles.”

“It can be, at times,” Jim said, but inside he cringed. He was sick to death of having this conversation. It happened with every romantic partner he encountered on the ship, sometimes word for word, and it broke the spell he was trying to cast over them and himself. Fortunately he had become an expert at cutting it short. “But I don’t feel very lonely right now.”

He stopped them both mid-stride and waited until her eyes locked with his. Then he kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, just like he knew she would.

***

Jim forced a grin as he shook hands with the Troskir high elder for the third time so Lieutenant Uhura could take pictures. Nogura had been on his case about publicity lately, and Uhura was the one who suggested press releases composed by the  _Enterprise_ crew instead of some grounded bureaucrat. While Jim wasn’t thrilled about the idea – his people had enough on their plates without going through a regular song and dance routine – it was impossible to say no to the lieutenant when she flashed that honey-sweet smile his way.

Finally Uhura gave a thumbs up, and everyone on both delegations visibly relaxed. Their chatter resumed as they began to disperse from the ceremonial platform. Jim descended the ramp with the crowd, wiping his hand discreetly on the side of his pants. The Troskir were semi-aquatic and produced a thin layer of protective slime on their skin. He had nothing against amphibioids, but some traditions just weren’t intended for interspecies contact.

He made a beeline for the same exit he was fairly sure Spock had fled through. The blue mosaic archway promised a few moments’ peace and quiet, and hopefully some much-needed reflection time with his first officer. But the Troskir hall was too spacious for a quick crossing, and he was intercepted by Ensign Gresh, one of Uhura’s enlistees for the press release project.

“Captain, may I trouble you for a few words?” His snout quivered anxiously. By all accounts he was a brilliant writer, which Jim took on the opinion of others because free flow Tellarite prose was not to his personal taste. But the kid was as timid in real life as he was bold in print, the literal runt of a litter, and Jim figured some encouragement was in order.

“Go ahead, Ensign.”

“Three separate delegations failed to secure mining rights with the Troskir in the past. What was different about this one?”

“Well, we had the finest crew in the Fleet at our disposal,” he said. A few of said crew stopped to listen on their way to the buffet tables. The only part of any diplomatic gathering that was worth the fuss, the saying went. “And we learned a lot from the mistakes of those who came before us. Leisure first, ceremonial gifts, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, but how did you ultimately convince them to sign?”

Jim hesitated. He didn’t want to discuss the details, mainly because he broke protocol to get them. “They would have signed from the very beginning. I just stumbled upon the right way to ask.”

“I… see,” Gresh tapped on his PADD, face crinkled by the awareness that Jim was withholding a piece of the puzzle. “So to what, exactly, do you attribute to your success?”

“Luck was on my side, I suppose.”

“He’s being modest,” a familiar voice teased over his shoulder. “You can’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth post-victory.”

“Doctor, how fortunate!” Gresh rounded on the interloper. “Surely you’d like to say a few words.”

Put on the spot, McCoy’s devilish grin subdued itself into something more calculating. “Why yes, as a matter of fact I would. Congratulations, Captain, from the bottom of my heart. Mighty fine work.” His eyes drifted to the high canvas ceiling. “You know, it reminds me of the time my grandfather said to me–” He slapped Jim on the arm and began dragging him away from Gresh and the others. Jim offered them an apologetic but helpless shrug.

The moment they were out of earshot, McCoy dropped the ruse like a ton of bricks. “‘–Leonard,’ he says, ‘you can do better than that Jezebel you call a wife.’ All right then. What do you say to a celebratory drink?”

“Thanks, Bones,” Jim said, and added in a conspiratorial tone, “as long as you make mine a double.”

“Amen to that.”

They picked their way to the refreshments table and settled on some stools at the far end, near where Ensign Chekov was introducing a few young Troskir to vodka. The Troskir were rubbing it into their skin with tremendous enthusiasm. Jim eyed the group warily, then Bones, who seemed unconcerned.

“Cheers.” McCoy pushed a glass of something amber-colored into his hand, and Jim took a cautious whiff. Definitely alcohol, but an alien variety he didn’t recognize. He waited for his friend to take the plunge first.

No such luck. McCoy must have been in a talkative mood, because he seemed content to postpone the revelry for now. “Honestly Jim, I’m surprised you pulled this one off,” he said. “I just can’t wait to see the look on Nogura’s face when he acknowledges your report.”

“Neither can I,” Jim said, although the prospect of more praise didn’t thrill him, especially if it came from a pinch-faced admiral. What he did really wasn’t that hard. Once he got a good read on someone, persuasion came easy.

The Troskir, for instance, were wishy-washy at first glance. An entire species that seemed afraid of commitment. They wouldn’t have budged if the Federation pledged three dozen planets in exchange for an ounce of dilithium per year. Conversely, if the treaty had demanded the immediate surrender of all the Troskir held dear, they wouldn’t have given Jim a straight refusal.

So Jim left the areas set aside for the delegation, without permission. He observed the Troskir and their families as they lounged in the shade and basked in the ocean. And he noticed that every time a decision had to be made, one person expressed what sounded like a demand, and the other person would either refuse or comply. Anything less than an outright order, any phrasing that could be taken as a question, meant uncertainty to them. Talk for talk’s sake, aimless and frivolous.

What Jim realized was that he had to boss them around. Tell them to sign the damn treaty already, although not using those exact words, and since they had found it acceptable all along, they listened. What he did could be taken as rude or even coercive by someone on the outside, but this was a case where ‘do you find this agreeable’ or ‘are you willing to sign’ never would have cut it.

“Captain Kirk.” Jim rolled his eyes at the gruff croak, but couldn’t completely banish his smile. Lorlorsa was an elder among the Troskir elders, and had more energy than tadpoles a fraction of her age. She loped beside his stool and tugged on his sleeve. “Swim with us.”

“No, Lorlorsa,” he said firmly. “Get me some  _rokra_  fruit. Then I’ll swim.”

She pondered the request, eyes alternately bugging out and submerging into her head as McCoy looked on with a foolish grin. “Yes,” she said, and waddled off. No drama, no subterfuge, no roundabout negotiation. The distinction between idle talk and action was crystal clear.

Jim could get used to this species.

***

The day before his breakthrough with the Troskir, Jim ran into his first officer on the low porch that connected their rooms. Jim was leaning on the stone railing at the time, blanking his mind with the steady sea breeze and the cool night air in the hopes that a clean slate would lend him new insight. Or at the very least, relieve his frustration. Before he even heard or saw Spock, Jim sensed his presence like barely-heard music, or the scent of woodsmoke on a cold winter night.

“Can’t sleep either?” he said, without turning around.

A pause, then the quiet scuff of footsteps approaching him. “I decided to forego sleep in favor of reviewing the Troskir behavioral analysis once more.”

“For the third time?”

“Fifth,” Spock said.

“I appreciate your dedication, but I’m not sure it will do us any good at this point,” Jim said. “They’re too caught up in some kind of evasive diplomat mode.”

“Perhaps.” Spock came up beside him and rested his hands on the railing. His face was pale in the blue light from the bay, where the Troskir hatcheries glowed under water like frozen jellyfish. “Are you also awake of your own volition, or suffering from insomnia?”

“I’m not sure. The beds here are terrible either way.”

“Evidently our hosts cannot grasp the concept of sleeping on land,” he said. “I suspect that cultural disconnect is to blame for their curious interpretation of what constitutes a mattress.”

Jim snickered, and they stood together in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The sound of the waves unwound some of the tension from his shoulders and released the half-dozen minor aches across his back and neck. The stars were fading on the horizon, overtaken by a faint but growing stain of light. He glanced over at Spock to see if the ambiance was having any effect on his friend, and was barreled over by what could only be described as  _details_.

Spock was wearing loose, gray Vulcan robes instead of regulation sleepwear, and his feet were bare. His hair was faintly tousled, whether from the wind or a casual sweep of his hand while deep in thought. The angles of his face were softened by a very human-looking calm as he stared out over the vista. Heat curled into Jim’s chest like a living thing, quivering and thrumming with restless energy. A familiar companion with a decidedly unfamiliar focus.

It occurred to Jim that if he opened his mouth now, he didn’t know what would come out. Business, he told himself in his sternest internal voice. He should talk about the mission and redirect his train of thought before it went careening off the tracks. Especially given that Spock had just noticed his bizarre fixation and was returning his stare.

“Are you well, Captain?”

“Just tired.” Jim tore his gaze away. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the railing, shaping the mundane into a shield. “I know this isn’t some critical mission. But damn if Nogura comming us yesterday didn’t light a fire under me,” he said. “He thinks we can’t do it.”

“He said nothing of the sort.”

“He didn’t have to.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spock lift a brow in a specific way that meant he conceded the point. “Nonetheless, your assessment of the situation’s importance is accurate.”

“I can’t stop caring, though.” The marine breeze that teased Jim’s scalp shifted directions, blowing from the inland hills. An especially cool gust caught him, carrying the dirt-and-dew scent of vegetation and the faintest hint of something else, piquant and alien. “I want it now,” he said, suppressing a shudder. “I don’t have a choice.”


	2. Fire

_Fire_  
  
  


Two months and worlds away from the Troskir seaside, Jim squinted at a station map crammed beneath an itinerary in four different languages. The Jupiter Conference was the premier scientific gathering in the Federation, rivaled only by the VSA’s annual symposium. Seeing as about half of Jim’s senior staff were invited, it only made sense to request a ship-wide shore leave for the duration. The Callisto Station was the perfect locale too, boasting an exceptional view of Jupiter and the three other Galilean moons.

That view was what Jim chased in vain on their first night after docking. His hotel room, although sumptuous beyond the telling of it, was situated so he could only ever see a quarter slice of the planet at once. Callisto’s surface was cratered, geologically dead, and not terribly interesting, and Jim wanted to see the conference’s namesake in the best possible light before he called it a day.

Unfortunately the map on the wall was either stylized or poorly designed, and he suspected it would lead him to a leprechaun treasure before the viewing domes. He gave up and asked for directions from two passersby, both of whom were equally disoriented. The third time was the charm, and an old maintenance worker pointed him in the right direction.

There were sixteen viewing domes that crowned the Callisto Station. Jim found out at the hub that ten of these were reserved for private parties, two for professional astronomers, and one was closed for repair. A whim and a child’s counting game landed him on door number three.

He entered the windowless hallway and hesitated at the threshold, an instinctive reaction born of far too many missions in confined spaces that ended badly. It took a conscious moment to remind himself there was no danger, but intellect couldn’t completely override instinct; he strode down the hall at a brisk pace, and the oval door at the far end slid open with a faint sigh that mirrored his own. He stepped through the portal and into a bubble of starlight.

There was Jupiter in all its glory, suspended on the Milky Way, commanding a substantial portion of the transparent aluminum dome. Its bands rotated sluggishly in different directions, some flowing smoothly and others frayed by their neighbors, casting out fringes of baroque curls. Rust and cream blended together in a majestic visual symphony.

The claustrophobia of the entry passage must have been intentional, an inspired move on the part of the station designers. The contrast was incredible.

Inside the dome, bushes and short trees were illuminated by the filtered glow of a distant Sol. Outside, the other domes were spread around the station’s central hub like spokes on a wheel, staggered so that no view was obscured. They were dim enough that Jim couldn’t make out their interiors, only the occasional flickering shadow.

He was about to take a closer look when movement behind one of the bushes informed him he wasn’t alone.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jim said. His fellow planet-gazer took a few steps closer.

“Captain.” Spock’s face was in shadow, but his voice was bright and amiable, which meant he felt intellectually challenged on his most Vulcan level. The company of the conference was clearly agreeing with him thus far. “I am… gratified to see you. Albeit surprised.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Jim said. “Although I suppose if we didn’t have a knack for running into each other, neither of us would be here today.”

“Indeed.”

He approached Spock step by measured step, momentarily unable to take his eyes off Jupiter. The sight was a little unbelievable, even after years spent surveying gas giants. “I’m not interrupting any deep thoughts, am I?”

“That would depend upon your definition of the term.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jim laughed.

“Regardless, your presence does not constitute an interruption.”

Jim felt himself flush slightly at the veiled praise. He cleared his throat and moved into the realm of ideas, a more comfortable space for them both. “I noticed you have a talk tomorrow afternoon. Planetary formation in a mixed-sequence quaternary system, right?”

“Based upon the mapping we undertook at Mizar. And another one Thursday on a similar topic,” Spock said.

“I’ll do my best to drop in on them both.”

“I anticipate a more vigorous debate following the second,” Spock said, in the same fond way anyone else would announce the visit of a long-absent lover. “Modeling is a hotly contested field. No two individuals ever agree on acceptable parameters.”

“There’s a piece of wisdom if I’ve ever heard one,” Jim murmured.

“Captain?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” He glanced at an interpretive plaque, preoccupied by the magnetic pull that kept insisting he stand closer to Spock. Maybe it was due to the relative darkness and silence in the dome, a kind of hyperawareness born out of sensory deprivation.

Fortunately Spock meandered away from him, closer to the transparent aluminum barrier and the massive planet beyond. Jim turned around to study the Callisto Station where it clung to the ice spire below them, a fantastic castle composed of frosted metal. Thin silver threads connected it to the spaceport above, where he could just barely make out the _Enterprise’s_ nacelles peeking out from behind her dock. Two faint red dots amongst the stars.

“It’s beautiful here,” he said. The words were reflexive.

“Yes,” Spock said. No hesitation, no qualification, no overcomplicated rationalizing. Not even an ambiguous sound of acknowledgement. Just ‘yes.’

Jim turned to look at his first officer where he stood at the opposite side of the dome. He was silhouetted against Jupiter like a shadow on its face, blocking out the ancient red storm, not quite real. The familiar lines of his profile moved Jim almost as much as his straightforward response. How far he had come during their years of service together, Jim mused. There was a time when he couldn’t imagine holding a normal conversation with a Vulcan. Tonight one was agreeing with him on the concept of beauty.

“Ganymede is visible, I believe,” Spock said suddenly.

“Where?” Jim snapped out of his daze and crossed the dome. The pull returned, stronger than before, and this time he followed instead of fought.

Spock pointed, but it was difficult to make out the angle, so Jim leaned into him and squinted along his arm. The rest of the Galilean moons must have been hiding behind Jupiter, but there was Ganymede in full view, tracking across the planet’s face at the tip of Spock’s finger.

One slender, precise finger. All of the patience and strength Spock possessed was encapsulated in his hands.

“I see,” Jim murmured. Then Spock lowered his arm, and Jim turned to look at him, and their eyes locked together.

They were standing close enough that Jim could see the reflection of Jupiter in Spock’s pupils. Colorful streaks like layered sandstone formed a thin film over an inscrutable darkness. But Jim had observed Spock for long enough to read his subtleties, to know when he was uncomfortable and when he wasn’t. Right now the tense brow and relaxed jaw, the searching gaze, and the careful stillness that clung to him all read curiosity. An urge surfaced within Jim, brilliant and unpremeditated, the first ray of sunshine after the rain.

To hell with it.

He touched the side of Spock’s face and guided them into a kiss.

All the tension in his body dissolved like sugar in water the instant their lips met. There was no turning back now, so he committed himself, shutting out any meek trembles of doubt. This became something he had to do, natural as breathing, necessary as taking an impossible shot. Spock’s lips were cool and dry, and surprisingly soft beneath his own. He smelled like cedar, or maybe pine, with the faintest underscore of pepper.

Jim realized abruptly he had gone up on his toes a bit in an instinctive bid for a better angle. He had never kissed someone taller than him before, after all. His subconscious must not know what to make of it. That notion planted the seed of a laugh in his chest, and he drew back, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He shifted his hand from Spock’s cheek to his shoulder as they parted. Spock leaned into his touch minutely as he stroked a thumb along the base of the Vulcan’s neck; that or he was unsteady on his feet. Either way it seemed like a good omen.

“I think I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time,” Jim said.

He waited for the response, his entire body wired as though he stood on the edge of a cliff. His heart thudded faster with each passing second. Sweat beaded along his spine. Already his mind was conjuring phantom sensations of long fingers teasing the nape of his neck, a wiry frame pressed against him, the taste of a cool alien mouth. There it was, that flicker in Spock’s eyes that spoke of complex and potent emotions swarming beneath years of repression. Rallying their strength, about to break free.

“Doors lock,” Spock said.

The ensuing beep was loud enough in the small space that Jim actually flinched. This was happening. Good God, this was actually happening. He started to speak, seeking confirmation, but Spock got there first.

“Jim,” he said hoarsely, dropping his gaze to the floor. He folded his hands behind his back and squared his stance, pulling his shoulder out of Jim’s reach. Then he shifted his attention outside, and his eyes glazed over with the distance of open space. “If I have done something to mislead you, I apologize.”

The words didn’t make sense, not when Spock said them in a voice so muted and private, it belonged nestled between sheets. “I’m… not sure what you mean,” Jim said.

“I am grateful for your friendship.” The words were obviously a struggle for him, and sounded increasingly robotic as he continued. “I have been and always shall be grateful. But friendship is all that I envision between us.”

Too many questions vied for Jim’s attention, and the simplest one escaped first. “Why?”

“I am a Vulcan.”

“Yes, I know.” Jim crossed his arms. “That’s not a real answer.”

“You are my superior officer. Such associations are discouraged within the chain of command.”

“Neither is that.” Everybody and their brother knew about Pike and Number One, for instance, but headquarters never did a thing about it. They would have been shooting themselves in the foot to break up a command team like that. No reason the same immunity wouldn’t apply here.

“All available evidence indicates you are heterosexual,” Spock said.

Jim almost laughed at that. “Don’t you think more recent evidence indicates there are exceptions to the rule?”

The fact that Spock had dropped three excuses so readily told Jim he was grasping at straws. It was only a matter of time before he ran out. Jim was eagerly awaiting that admission when Spock dropped a bomb.

“I do not desire you.”

Every curiously furtive glance roared through Jim’s head at once. Every touch that was not strictly necessary, every intimate albeit pained confession of feeling. Every drop of blood spilled on strange soil and green bruise stamped into olive skin. And every time Spock said his name like a benediction, hushed and charged with raw affection, shocking him back to himself when he was lost.

“You’re lying,” he said, without malice.

Something indecipherable passed over Spock’s face, a reflexive twitch of muscles. The whisper of an expression crushed out of existence. “Vulcans do not lie.”

“Even to themselves?” Jim lapsed into frustration. “Come on, Spock. You’re feeding me canned responses.”

“I was not aware that an honest expression of one’s preferences could be considered a ‘canned response,’” he said, clipped and severe. “I need not justify myself further. You have my answer. Captain.”

Shame yoked Jim, humbling him beneath its weight. The dreamy atmosphere conjured by Jupiter evaporated in the blink of an eye, and he fumbled for his composure. “You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.” The transparent dome and infinity all around it was suddenly cramped as a pressure cooker.

“I am not inclined to disagree,” Spock said.

Silence descended between them, a gulf that felt light years wide.

“And you’re sure.” Jim’s voice sounded feeble, not his own. “There’s no way I could change your mind?”

Spock’s blank stare into nothingness didn’t waver. “Please, Captain.”

“Right. I’ll just… go.” He headed for the door, encased in a surreal, numbing fog.

“Jim.” The sound of his name caught him two steps from escape. “I am sorry.” Emphasis on the second word, a quirk of speech Jim had always found endearing. Spock said it so earnestly that Jim had to believe him.

But it was worse this way, he thought as he made his retreat. If anyone should be apologizing, it was him, although he couldn’t settle on a reason. For assuming too much, or acting on a stupid impulse, or not leaving well enough alone. Or to express regret at the disturbing fact that for the first time in years, he and Spock were completely out of sync.

***

Morning brought one of those maddening hangovers that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with a sleepless night. Jim glared at the ceiling upon waking to the sound of birds, and was greeted by a flock of plump-cheeked cherubs scampering across a Renaissance mural.

“Computer, change ceiling display,” he grumbled.

//Please state your preferred theme.//

“Anything else.”

Blue skies appeared overhead, so bright he groaned and shut his eyes. After a few minutes of cowering under a pillow shield, he dragged himself out of the four poster bed and shuffled to the bathroom.

The general luxury of the Callisto Station was thorough, to say the least. The bathroom furnishings included a scalloped marble sink, full-length mirrors lining two out of four walls, and a tub big enough to host a marine mammal show. Jim had opted for the sonics the night before, mildly concerned about drowning.

He sonic’d the fuzz off his teeth and splashed water on his face as a wake-up call to his sluggish body. He buried his face in a towel and breathed through the terrycloth, willing the deep-set throb behind his temples away. It didn’t work.

Jim lowered the towel and grimaced at his reflection. Fine lines webbed out from the corners of his eyes and shallow grooves fragmented his forehead. All of them minor cracks in an otherwise boyish face. Common knowledge held that the captaincy aged people, and every time he attended the Admiral’s Ball he was ribbed about the clock ticking faster. But he got his post younger than any of the higher ups, so he never gave their warnings a second thought.

He shook his head. It was probably just the poor lighting. Replica lamps, with authentic filaments and everything. Then again, poor lighting couldn’t explain the visible softness around his midsection. He heaved a sigh and rested a hand on his stomach. Constant vigilance, Bones had told him on more than one occasion. With his habitually poor posture, even minor weight gain tended to show right away.

He decided to skip breakfast and hit the gym instead. Twice a week clearly wasn’t enough, and he could always stop by one of the station’s many restaurants on his way to Spock’s talk. Which he would no longer be attending, the aftershock of heat across his face informed him. A man needed some recovery time.

He decided to take an elevator up to the  _Enterprise_ , not in the mood for tackling the station’s state-of-the-art facilities, even assuming he could find them. Every step since he got out of bed had felt out of balance and off-kilter, as if the floor were crooked beneath him. Familiar territory would probably do him good.

The ride up to the docks was delayed by a science vessel unloading some equipment, but as soon as one of the elevator techs recognized him, they got him through on a service lift. From there it was a short walk to the ship.

He filled his lungs with recycled air as he made his way through the corridors, thinking about nothing in particular except placing one foot in front of the other. That is, until he almost collided with a leotard-clad Uhura in the doorway of the gym.

“Captain.” She backed up half a step to avoid standing on his toes. “ _You’re_ not on the skeleton crew, are you?”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said. “I was just feeling a bit homesick.”

“Already?” Her smile broadened, then faded. “But you do know it’s Wednesday, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Jim was puzzled until he realized he was off his normal schedule. “I believe I’ll be aiming for every other weekday now.”

“That’s wonderful! If you come at seven instead of eight, you can join our ballet class.” She winked and sauntered past him out in to the hall.

Ordinarily Jim would have a comeback to her mischief. Maybe not quite up to par, but a valiant attempt nonetheless. Today he blanked all the way to the locker room, and only then did his imagination offer a feeble line about pirouettes making him sick to his stomach.

After a few sets with each of his usual machines, his head stopped pounding, and his spirits finally began to pick themselves up and dust off. His muscles were decently honed despite several months of casual neglect, and he could keep up with his old routine with a minimum of huffing and puffing. He had just passed the halfway point when he noticed a few of his security staff gathering around the sparring ring, laying out the mats and warming up. The prospect of a few matches seemed quite a bit more interesting than pumping iron.

“Giotto,” he called out as he approached them. “Mind if I join?”

“You’re welcome to, sir.” His head of security clapped him on the back. “Anybody up for taking on the captain?”

“I promise the results will have very little bearing on your performance reviews,” Jim said, earning a few chuckles.

“I will.” Lieutenant Roberts, an enlistee from last year, stepped up to the mat. Mid twenties, decent marksman, and an even better singer if Jim’s hazy Christmas party memories served him correctly. They took their starting positions across the circle from one another, and Jim put all the onlookers out of his mind. He couldn’t focus when he was aware of an audience, and there was always an audience when the captain sparred.

Roberts was good, and he had the agility of youth on his side, but Jim’s experience took the advantage. He could see all the man’s openings and feints, anticipate most of his blows and dodge them neatly. It only took a minute to pin him the first time. The second round dragged, though, because Roberts started out cautious. Even so, Jim knew he just had to wait it out and watch for mistakes. After doing this with an opponent like Spock, anything else felt like child’s play.

That stray thought almost cost him the round. Roberts got a solid grip on his arms and tripped him off balance. Jim threw them both to the mat rather than go down alone. He had to roll when he hit, and he lost sight of Roberts momentarily.

The lieutenant was on him in a second, trapping his legs and going for his wrists. Jim thrashed out of the grapple hold before it could form. He pushed off the mat with all the strength in his arms to flip them and take the upper hand. He wouldn’t lose. Even if his limbs were paralyzed and his joints aching under the strain, he wouldn’t lose.

Then Roberts gave him an opportunity with an overzealous lunge. Jim used that momentum and got the other man face down, one arm trapped beneath him. A knee between Roberts’ shoulder blades and a hand on the back of his head secured him in place. One of the few positions that could subdue a Vulcan.

“Out of bounds,” Giotto said.

“I yield,” Roberts said, at almost the exact same instant.

Irritation flushed through Jim, tunneling his vision. The outcome no longer mattered. He didn’t want to let go. Roberts hadn’t even put up a real fight. The special anger of an adult turned childish gripped him, a ‘stay right there and think about what you’ve done’ kind of absurdity. It took conscious effort to overcome it and release his opponent.

He followed Giotto’s gaze, and yes, his foot had crossed the line. That hadn’t happened in a long time.

He helped Roberts to his feet, then stepped away to snatch his towel off the bench. The lieutenant stayed where he was, his hands braced on his knees, folded in half as he caught his breath.

“Good round.” Jim ran the towel over his face and strolled back into the ring. The floor was burnished with their sweat, but the heat in his muscles felt distant. “We seem to be tied, though. Best three out of five?”

“Sorry, Captain.” Roberts held up both hands. “I think I’m out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Out and outclassed, sir,” he said, grinning as he headed for the bench.

“Come on, now. One more round.” Jim beckoned the lieutenant back, his competitive impulse buzzing and impatient. Then he added, “I could make it an order,” but it didn’t sound as joking out loud as it had in his head.

“I... I’m real sorry, sir. I’ve got a date in fifteen.” Roberts’ laugh was forced, and abruptly Jim noticed the room was quieter than it should have been, and people were sneaking glances at them. His ears burned, and he nodded quickly.

“Of course.” Awkwardness did not become a captain, but Jim’s book-delving days at the Academy had taught him how to handle it well. He adopted his best jaunty smile. “Good luck with that date.”

The tension in the air dampened somewhat, and a few of the gym’s other occupants snickered. “Oh, he’ll need it, sir.” Lieutenant Mason piped up from the free weights corner. Roberts threw a towel at Mason’s head, which fell woefully short of its target.

Jim mopped up the sweat on his brow, slung his towel around his shoulders, and made a hasty exit into the corridor. His limbs were shaking and his stomach knotted, probably thanks to skipping breakfast. He always realized that was a bad idea after the fact, much to his CMO’s chagrin. He double-timed it for his quarters to shower and retrieve a few personal effects he hadn’t thought to bring to Callisto, following the familiar route on autopilot.

Everyone he passed exchanged perfunctory greetings with him. He had learned years ago that his usual gym attire acted like a shield, preventing anyone from engaging him and keeping all parties on task. That is, until Yeoman Vorhees saw him approach and froze where she stood.

“Captain,” she said to her feet, scooting needlessly far out of the way.

“Yeoman,” he said. Just what he needed. A new yeoman nervous enough she would probably spill coffee all over a control panel on her first official trip to the bridge. He sighed and carried on, almost at the turbolift and anticipating the welcome privacy of his quarters.

That was when an incongruous group of people rounded the corner ahead, none of whom he recognized. Scientists from the conference, maybe; they were all carrying PADDs and observing his ship, talking to one another in that engrossed, slightly oblivious way only scientists possessed. The ship could crumple around them and they’d be exchanging theories beneath the wreckage.

Then Spock appeared on their heels, a shepherd who had lost control of his flock. He tailed the scientists, now collectively focused on a power conduit, and began inserting himself between them to lead the discussion.

Looking at him was like being punched in the gut. Even after the initial blow, the rhythm of Jim’s lungs faltered. Docked at the third largest moon base in the Sol system, and they  _still_  couldn’t avoid each other. What had once been a blessing was now a curse.

There wasn’t much time to think. Jim debated taking the long way around, but he had no idea where the tour would head next, and the last thing he needed was to meet them a second time. So he ducked his head and kept right on going, hoping to slip through them with minimal fuss.

“Pardon me,” he said. The scientists all jerked out of their heads and tried rearranging themselves, but it was as hopeless as waiting for a bunch of cats to queue up. Jim swore internally when he was forced to a dead stop.

“Hey, aren’t you–” one of them started.

“Captain,” Spock said. He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Kirk.”

“Very nice to meet you all.” Jim summoned up his diplomat persona, lively and a bit grating. “I hope my first officer has been taking good care of you.”

Said first officer radiated nervous energy despite the flood of positive reviews. He barely looked at Jim. In fact, he seemed to be intent on avoiding doing so. It occurred to Jim that Spock always did act strangely whenever they met minus some clothing in unexpected circumstances. Almost as if Jim being half-dressed was only acceptable in a predetermined context. He wondered if anyone else noticed, or if he was the only one privy to this awareness.

Or if he was making it all up in his head.

“If you will excuse us Captain, we are meeting Lieutenant Scott in five,” Spock said.

“As you were.” Jim stepped aside and waved them past, taking a page out of Vorhees book and staring at the floor.

But one of the scientists detached from the group and approached him before he could continue on his way. She had toffee skin and long, dark hair braided down to her waist. A widow’s peak accentuated her heart-shaped face.

“Captain Kirk, could I have a moment please?” she said, sticking out her hand. “Maeve Patel. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Good to meet you too,” he said. She had a firm handshake for her small stature. “It’s Dr. Patel, I assume?”

She nodded. “My specialty is theoretical psychiatry. I was wondering if you would be willing to discuss the Lester incident over coffee.” She flashed him a smile that was at total odds with her professional demeanor. “Or perhaps coffee alone would be interesting enough.”

The name Lester made the hairs on the back of Jim’s neck stand up, but he shook it off. “I… if you’d like.”

She stared at him expectantly.

“Oh,” he said. “I’ll be free in an hour or so. Is that…”

“Perfect. Here’s my com serial.”

They hashed out the details and she hurried off to catch up with the tour. Jim watched her go on the colorful cloud of her sari, trying to convince himself his admiration of her curves wasn’t weirdly objective.

***

The Galilei Cafe was an island of calm amidst the chaos of the main station proper. Out there, all manner of doctorate hoarders collided in a mad rush to the next talk, eyes glued to their notes, shedding grad students in their wake. In here, behind the plate glass barrier, there was only the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee hovering on a cloud of quiet conversation.

Maeve returned to their table with two mugs of Earth-grown dark roast in hand. Jim accepted his with a murmured thanks and pulled out one of his more reliable date tricks, acquired from a massive book of names in his grandfather’s study.

“Pardon my curiosity, but Maeve is Gaelic, isn’t it?”

“Irish mother. Indian father.” She responded with practiced speed and a faint grin.

“How does that work?”

“Surprisingly well. One side loves to drink and the other side loves to party,” she said. “Get them together and all the neighbors take vacations.”

Jim laughed. “That sounds… entertaining.”

“Sometimes.” She stirred an alarmingly large heap of sugar into her coffee. Jim wasn’t among them, but he knew a few who worshipped at the altar of caffeine who would be appalled. “Surely a man like you had a comparable childhood,” she added.

“My family is from rural Iowa. We didn’t party so much as gather around a cake several times a year and sing off key,” he said.

“Then you’ve been deprived. You haven’t lived until you’ve woken up in a gazebo serenaded by a quartet of drunk uncles.”

The image was marvelous, granted, but Jim could one-up it in his sleep. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I had an entire crew go crazy on me once.”

“The Psi 2000 disease, right? That compound is actually in clinicals for depression.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Cross my heart.” She added an equally generous amount of creamer to her cup. Jim watched it swirl in the coffee, not unlike Jupiter’s turbulent clouds. The sight distracted him enough that he lost the question he was about to ask, his mind consumed by an image of the planet, a perfect marble surrounded by darkness. Luckily Maeve’s head was still in the game, and she kept him from following that thought too deep.

“Speaking of crazy, are you still up for a little psychoanalysis?” She grinned and waggled her eyebrows, and Jim decided he liked her attitude.

“Very subtle.” He smirked.

“I know, I know. Would it help if I told you my code of ethics means anything you say will be kept in the strictest confidence?”

“I would expect nothing less of you,” Jim said. He feigned careful consideration for a moment. “All right, go ahead.”

Formalities out of the way, she folded her hands on the table and leaned forward in her chair. Jim recognized the investigative gleam in her eyes, and he wondered if this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “The whole case is extraordinary,” she said. “Unprecedented, even. Everyone with the right clearance has been glued to the files for months.”

“I never knew it had such an audience,” Jim said, unsure if he should be flattered or disturbed. He shifted in his chair. “So what do you need me for?”

“Your doctor’s report was thorough, but it lacks a human touch. There aren’t any transcripts of the post-psych analysis, for instance, just a clean bill of health. All for privacy purposes, of course.” She seemed to recognize the intensity in her demeanor and toned it down, taking a few swigs of coffee. “I imagine the experience must have been traumatic.”

“It was. But the impressions have faded a great deal over time,” Jim said. He placed his hands around his cup, letting the heat seep into his fingers. “It hasn’t really stuck with me, for whatever reason.”

“Some of my colleagues thought that would be the case. Native synaptic patterns and such.” She waved a hand, painting abstractions no doubt beyond him. “I was one of the skeptics, actually.”

“And why was that?”

“During the event, you probably experienced the kind of intense body dysmorphia described by pre-operative transsexuals. A disturbing position to be caught in, by all accounts. Getting your body back wouldn’t erase the  _emotional_  memory of that experience. The exact physical sensations might become harder to recall, but the feelings wouldn’t be so quick to fade.” She shrugged. “At least, that’s what I thought.”

Jim searched for a helpful response and came up empty-handed. There was something he  _could_  say, but even assuming he was willing to explain it, he wasn’t sure it was relevant. “I’m sorry to disappoint,” he said.

“Not at all. A theory disproved is just as valuable as a theory confirmed,” she said. “Besides, I’m always glad to hear when someone has overcome a difficult period in their lives.”

She scooted her chair closer to him, although Jim hardly noticed at first. He was too stunned by her convincing mimic of an enthused Vulcan. But then he noted the parted lips, the demure glance, the faint smile. Her eyes were dark and inviting. She wanted him touch her, he thought. Place his hand over hers, maybe brush back an errant wisp of her hair. Didn’t she?

In his mind, he closed the gap and hit a barrier. He couldn’t foresee her reaction. His imagination dumped him into a metaphorical ocean with no land in sight. When he concentrated and tried again, two scenarios emerged; a generic replay of previous encounters, and outright rejection. They existed simultaneously like a classic physics puzzle, neither one taking precedence. Dare he open the box?

Not yet. He would wait until he was sure. If anyone knew how easily intellectual interest could be mistaken for something else…

Maeve’s smile faded, and she broke eye contact. Before Jim could react, she had leaned back in her chair and moved on with her unofficial examination. She asked him more questions about strategies he would recommend for coping with trauma, and about the differences he perceived between men and women. She listened, attentive and friendly, but there was a distance to her now. The playfulness in her demeanor had dampened. All the while Jim was puzzled by a shift he felt powerless to reverse.

About twenty minutes later, she did a double take at her PADD and sighed. Her stylus paused mid-sentence, and she picked the device’s case up off the floor. “I should get going. I’ve got a bet with one of my T.A.s that I can stay awake for an entire Dr. Humboldt seminar.”

“Good luck.” Jim tapped into his memories, mimicking a confidence he didn’t feel. “Would you like to meet for dinner tonight?”

“Maybe another time,” she said. Her smile could have put the Mona Lisa to shame. “I have an outrageous amount of notes to sort through.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He berated himself for saying so. Desperation was never an attractive quality except in some very specific cases. That was one lesson he had been neglecting lately.

She hugged him goodbye, and he took his seat again after she vanished into the crowds outside. He skimmed exaggerated descriptions of pastries on the café menu for a few minutes, rifling through the facts in his head. She was the one who approached him first, who engaged him, who flirted with him. What changed?

He stared into his cup, chasing his metaphorical tail in an aimless confusion. His coffee was cold. It occurred to him that he hadn’t taken a single sip.

The rest of his day was spent wandering between events that should have been more engaging, but weren’t. A dissection of famous tactical victories, a talk on the importance of cultural biology during first contacts, and a botany presentation from some professor highly recommended by Sulu. The reactions of the people around Jim suggested said professor was a riot, but by that point, his headache from that morning was threatening a comeback. He had to get away from the constant noise and endless stream of introductions from well-meaning admirers.

He made his way back to the hotel region of the station where his crew was quartered, and after a few wrong turns, ended up one floor too low. He was about to correct the mistake when he recognized a room number at the end of the hall. An internal debate ensued, and his weakness won out.

Bones answered the door in a robe and slippers, and Jim cast a significant glance over the doctor’s shoulder.

“Are you… busy?”

“Good Lord, does it look like I’m busy?” McCoy snorted and dragged him inside by the arm, missing the insinuation entirely. “I must need cucumbers stuck to my eyes or some such nonsense.”

“I’m not imposing, am I?”

“Of course not. What brings you to my neck of the woods this late?”

Jim cast him a sheepish look. “I could really use a drink,” he said.

“Oh dear,” McCoy said, without an ounce of sympathy and enough sarcasm to power the entire station. “Two days of leave and Jim’s already jumping off the deep end. This might be a new record.”

“I mean it, Bones.”

“All right, all right. Make yourself at home.” McCoy paused with one hand on the room’s liquor cabinet handle, did a double-take at Jim, and frowned. “I’ll break out the good stuff.” He moved to rifle through the duffel bags at the foot of the bed.

“You’re a saint.” Jim settled into a replica chair shaped like a throne, its cushions so soft they practically swallowed him. McCoy took the opposite chair and passed Jim a tumbler without a word, giving him time and refilling as needed. Jim waited until he had a few shots of the smuggled goods in him before he attempted to string words together. “So I met this woman, and–”

“Truly the start to all tales worth telling.” McCoy grinned, lifting his tumbler in a toast.

“Not this time.” Jim thought about how best to explain himself. I couldn’t flirt with her. I couldn’t read her. I feel like my head isn’t screwed on right. He settled for the simplest possible version of events instead. “Her name is Maeve. She turned me down. That’s about all there is to it.”

McCoy’s eyes widened. “When did this happen?”

“This afternoon.”

“And you’ve been down in the dumps ever since?”

Quite a bit longer than that. But Jim kept his mouth shut, because he didn’t trust himself to lie convincingly with the alcohol seeping into his bloodstream. Let McCoy draw his own conclusions.

The doctor was more than happy to oblige him. “I’ll tell you what your problem is, Jim,” he announced, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. “You’re spoiled.”

“What?”

“I should have told you years ago. You breezed through the academy in no time, top of your class. You beat that unbeatable Koba-whatsit test. Then they made you the youngest captain ever and handed you a flagship. Pike’s ship.  _The_ Captain Christopher Pike’s ship.”

“You’re being a little selective there, don’t you think?” Jim nursed his drink, concealing a frown. “I’ve made bad calls. I’ve lost people.”

“I’m not talking about the missions where you fly by the seat of your pants and get the best possible outcome anyway. I’m talking about goals. All those things in life you don’t haveto do, but  _want_  to do.” McCoy shook his head. “And when James T. Kirk wants something, the cosmos tends to rearrange itself.”

Instinct kicked in, and Jim went on the defensive. “All right, so I’ve been lucky.”

“That’s only half the story. You’ve worked hard and earned your station in life, that’s for sure,” McCoy said. “But sometimes the universe doesn’t give a damn what you’ve earned.”

“Well, sure. I’m not the one claiming the cosmos bends at my will.”

“Doesn’t matter. You still expect it to happen. So when your luck finally descends to a normal human level, you don’t know what to do with yourself.” McCoy crossed his arms and looked more than a little pleased with himself. “Take this woman, for instance. You’re only upset about such a minor letdown because you’re spoiled.”

Stale resentment clouded Jim’s head. He finished his current shot and swallowed a mouthful of bitterness along with it. “If I’m spoiled, maybe you’re jealous,” he said. Almost immediately he grasped the meaning of his own words, and a sharp pang twisted in his chest. “God, Bones. I didn’t mean that. I just…”

“Said it?” McCoy looked more shocked than hurt, and inquisitive. Jim could see the change happen; he had just launched himself from the ‘distressed friend’ to the ‘patient’ category in McCoy’s mind, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Yeah,” he said, grimacing.

“All right, Jim. What’s really the matter?” McCoy’s voice was calmer than it ought to have been, the professional in him taking the reins. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you like this.”

Jim refused to meet the man’s eyes. He had more than his fill of psychoanalysis for one day. “It’s nothing. Haven’t struck out in years, I guess.”

“Bull. Is it the end of the mission?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” And there he went, snapping for the second time in the last minute.

This time McCoy ignored the outburst entirely. “Because major life transitions have a way of blowing everything out of proportion. Trust me, you wouldn’t be the only one with problems adjusting to–”

“Please, Bones.” Jim held up a hand. “Just leave it.”

A few seconds passed in silence.

“You should get a good night’s rest. That’s my official prescription.” McCoy clapped a hand on Jim’s shoulder, gentle and apologetic. The familiar touch tempered Jim in spite of himself.

“I will.” He rolled the empty tumbler between his palms before surrendering it to McCoy’s expectant hand.

“Well, hop to it. There isn’t enough night as it stands.”

“Yes, sir.” Jim managed a smile, hoping it would make up for some of the damage he’d done. McCoy was just trying to help, and Jim had to value his honesty, however mistaken the assumptions behind it.

“You know, there are plenty of other fish in the sea,” Bones offered as he walked Jim to the door, shooting him devious grin. “And this station is a regular coral reef.”

What good was a coral reef when you wanted a bird, Jim thought. He nodded anyway.

He walked to his room in a daze, buzzed and a bit unsteady on his feet, threads of their conversation trailing after him. Sure, sometimes life felt scripted in his favor, but everyone went through periods of invulnerability. He was still just as surprised by success as he was failure, and he accepted both and expected neither.

Besides, there was one very conspicuous area where he had yet to come out victorious. Miramanee certainly hadn’t gone his way. Neither had Rayna, sweet innocent Rayna, who he had doted upon in the surreal emotional throes of Rigelian fever. Or Edith, the first and most painful shock.

Then again, they had all loved him back.

Better to have loved and lost, some corner of his mind sneered. He cut the platitude off before it could complete itself.

“Computer, lights at twenty percent.” The sound of his voice carried through the spacious room, reverberating back at him. He kicked off his boots and clambered into the bed fully clothed.

Whether it was a glitch or pranksters in station management, the ceiling cherubs were back. One of them was chasing the others across a meadow with a bow and arrow, a scene that despite its historical stylings, involved antics better suited to a children’s holo. Whoever designed it must have had a grudge against their manager.

“Ceiling off,” Jim grumbled.

***

The Lester incident, as Maeve had phrased it in such a uniquely sterile, clinical way, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The last in a series of assaults on his body and mind in the twilight years of the mission – amnesia, the Platonians, the Vians – that made Jim begin to wonder, for the first time, if his life’s calling was worth the trouble.

He had never felt so vulnerable since he was a child on Tarsus, watching the bodies being dumped into mass graves like garbage. He had never wanted something so badly yet been so afraid of failing. His friends couldn’t see past a stranger’s mask. His body was rampaging around with a madwoman at the wheel who could have killed him on a whim. Every second he existed, took a step or a breath, he was pushing against the bars of a strange and terrible cage.

But Spock was there. Spock was always there. Jim should have known better than to doubt, because he had a champion who would go to the ends of the universe for his sake.

In the aftermath, keeping it together on the bridge was simple. There were a million distractions, bright lights and flashing buttons, and the constant companionship of a crew falling over themselves to make up for being slow to mutiny.

There were no such distractions when he jolted awake in the middle of the night, tangled in sheets damp with sweat. When his fingers scrambled along his jaw, through his hair, patted at his chest and between his legs. When he dashed to the mirror, deafened by the mad drumbeat of his heart, and even the reassurance of his reflection couldn’t banish the hazy sensation of softness that clung to his limbs.

He curled into himself in the darkness each time it happened, trembling through waves of nausea, wondering yet again if what Janice did had linked them forever. If she could force her way back into his body through the sheer, stubborn resolve of insanity. Mornings grew more and more tortuous, and Jim worried about missing his shift alarm entirely.

Then Spock came to him four nights after it happened. He said something about a drop in efficiency, and the symptoms of sleep deprivation, and that was all it took. Jim started talking in the throes of something half memory, half hypochondria, held hostage by his fears, speaking nonsense he would barely remember in the morning. Spock sat with him and listened to every word, the very embodiment of patience. An observer outside of Jim’s head who refused to beat him up for his concerns.

“You knew me,” Jim murmured, when the worst had passed.

“I did,” he said.

They were sitting side-by-side on the bed, Jim leaning on his knees, his head in his hands. Spock’s weight made a dip in the mattress beside him that he badly wanted to slip into. He wished Spock were the type of person to lean against him or sling an arm around his shoulders. Maybe someone else’s hands on his body could make it seem real again.

That thought was followed quickly by an even worse tension than before. He had never let the façade of command shatter this completely in front of someone else. Then again, he had never felt this close to someone else before. Closer than anyone, the memory echoed, and a hot flush crept over his face. He wished it were hyperbole. What kind of human had a Vulcan for a best friend, anyway? What kind of Vulcan reciprocated that regard? It didn’t make any sense.

Spock chose that exact moment to remind him that sense had nothing to do with it. He turned at the waist so he was facing Jim squarely. His hand moved as though he were about to trace the contour of Jim’s cheek, but then his fingers splayed, and he twisted his palm outward. He waited with a millimeter separating them, his face concealed by the half-light.

Jim nodded.

The connection swung open the instant skin touched skin, as easy as succumbing to gravity, and every anxious thought welled up to the surface. The sick, voyeuristic shame of an unfamiliar body, the helpless muddle of emotions, the strange intensity of smells and colors. There was no strength in his arms, and his hands were fragile, his fingers like twigs anyone could snap. He existed under constant threat of invasion, of someone touching and controlling him – throwing him in a jail cell, strapping him to a biobed, taking anything they wanted. Suppose he was stuck like this forever. Suppose this form could be turned against him, forced to contain a life that fed on his own, a parasite for which his upbringing had never prepared him, like the nameless and dead-eyed girl he saw in Kodos’ entourage–

_Jim._

Reality unraveled the downward spiral. A serene and meticulous presence enclosed the memories, compressing them and muting them until they transformed into meaningless background static. Jim found himself alone in a blank, quiet space, nothing but physical sensations occupying his thoughts; the delicate and oft-neglected awareness of possessing muscles and skin and bones. Of sinking into them, his consciousness infusing them. An empty house made home again.

Calmed and contented, his attention gradually roved outward, and the other presence eased back under his scrutiny. But right before the connection broke, he saw himself through Spock’s eyes. It was fleeting, an impression of strength and boundless admiration, but it gave him another foothold nonetheless. Spock made a swift exit when it was all over, and Jim slept like a baby.

Things got easier after that. Jim suspected Spock had done something to him during the meld, dulled the worst of his symptoms. But he told himself it could have been a side effect of sharing, of knowing another person understood where he was coming from and feeling less alone as a result. He didn’t want to know whether that was true or not.

They never spoke about it. Sometimes Jim wasn’t sure it had actually happened, that it hadn’t just been his haunted mind exorcising itself in the most satisfying way imaginable. Then Spock would say his name in the exact same tone that had shut down the storm, and he was sure again. It didn’t matter though, because that night was when a very real beast first stirred in his subconscious. When the vague sparks of a feeling he wouldn’t acknowledge for a long time yet ignited and began to glow.

***

Jim made the decision, during Scotty’s exaggerated retelling of the Tribble incident over lunch, that he would go see Spock’s second talk. It wasn’t because he felt the need to prove McCoy’s screwball theory wrong. It was an obligation he had to fulfill, a duty to a friend and loyal officer, and he really ought to make up for shirking the first one. He scarfed down his sandwich in record time and took his leave from the station’s main food court.

Unfortunately, he missed a memo about some kind of brawl-induced location change – apparently Andorian geophysicists took ice core dating  _very_  seriously – and he arrived at the talk fifteen minutes late. He slipped into the darkened room as quietly as possible and found a seat toward the back. His poor timing had secured him a spot in what were clearly extra rows of chairs set up on the fly. Most of the stage was obscured by an obnoxious headdress and a Corinthian column.

The proud owner of said headdress was one of two elderly Vulcans, situated almost directly in front of him and talking in low voices. Jim automatically honed in on their conversation, indignant and distracted. The universal translator could only catch smatterings, but it was enough.

“…for a hybrid…”

“…unexpected potential…”

“…T’Pring? Yes, I believe so…”

Jim remembered a similar incident a year or two ago at a diplomatic meeting. Vulcans were hopeless gossips despite all appearances, and whenever they recognized Spock, they inevitably started trading rumors. Jim had responded that earlier time by introducing himself and pointing out that the man in question was his first officer. Pretending all the while that he was oblivious to their discussion, and shaming them into silence.

These Vulcans were older and crustier than the ones from that particular meeting. He wasn’t sure the same strategy would go over well, and he certainly didn’t want to try it here. He dismissed them and re-focused his attention toward their subject of discussion.

The room’s massive holo screen displayed what looked like a red giant and a main sequence star orbiting one another, the former dwarfing the latter and throwing off layered shells of fire. He couldn’t see Spock, but he could hear Spock’s voice, clear and calm through the sound system. The faintest hint of enthusiasm colored his persuasive tone. It took a good ten seconds for Jim to concentrate on what was being said rather than the sound itself.

“This is the point at which entropy takes over,” Spock said, and the red giant exploded, flooding the room with a burst of light that made Jim squint. A green wire funnel took its place, the theoretical blueprint of a black hole.

“Convention suggests that two scenarios are possible,” Spock continued, the holo animating his words with a smooth ballet of images. “Either the singularity will consume the second star, or the second star will remain unchanged by virtue of distance. However, predicting which scenario occurs is difficult, if not impossible, based on orbital paths alone. The presence or absence of planets, the influence of other stars, and subspace shockwaves resulting from the nova are all confounding variables that are not well understood.

“What Doctors Wong and Saren proposed four years ago is that these seemingly minor forces could change a star’s course enough that it will depart the system entirely. This would provide an explanation for those rogue stars we observe which are not within intergalactic space.” The star and singularity were flung apart while a timescale below the scene ticked forward millions of years. A subtle murmur rose around Jim, and he gathered from his neighbors that the theory Spock cited was controversial, not yet proven.

“Data is admittedly lacking,” Spock said, silencing but addressing these scattered discussions. “Few of us possess the lifespan required to track such events as they occur.” The audience laughed, and Jim was simultaneously amused and amazed. It was rare enough that Spock cracked a joke on purpose, but to hear said joke appreciated was an even more unusual occurrence.

Then Spock banished all traces of levity. “Nonetheless, observational evidence from the  _Enterprise_ ’s voyagesuggests there is reason to believe Mizar three is a Wong-Saren star, adopted by a new system from its origin.”

This time the collective reaction was an agitated buzz. Some voices were excited and triumphant, while others implied that Spock had just insulted the character of their mothers, but just about everyone had a reaction. Jim overflowed with a surge of satisfaction that always came from Spock upsetting some status quo. He felt lighter than he had in days, maybe longer.

That was when Spock meandered into view for the first time, pacing the stage with the same unconscious, easy stride he used on the bridge. He observed the room’s reaction with a composed and vaguely interested expression, bathed in the artificial starlight of the holo. Maybe it was bad timing, riding on the wave of Jim’s vicarious pride, but a tight fist of pressure squeezed his chest and settled into his gut, and he knew he had made a mistake in coming here. Some kind of bizarre forbidden fruit effect had taken hold of him, and he didn’t like it one bit. He gripped his knees with clammy palms and stared at the paisley carpet under his feet.

He couldn’t leave now – four Tellarites had come in after him and blocked the rest of the row – so he resigned himself and broke out his PADD. When neither Mark Twain nor the trashy celebrity feeds could hold his attention, he took to staring at the floor instead. When the carpet’s swirls morphed into Rorschach blots, he studied the PADD again. Anything but the man commanding that stage and narrating the paths of stars. Jim dimly registered a question and answer session taking place, Spock’s voice a steady constant interspersed by barbed and bright comments.

Relief flooded over him when the applause started. The din of a hundred people clamoring out of their seats cued him to do the same, and he followed the flow of traffic, bent on escape. His brain painted itself a protective veneer of excuses. He had things to do, places to be. He would shoot Spock a congratulatory message later.

The aisle was crowded, and he shuffled along, bobbing his head in search of a route through the chaos. A few people recognized him and tried to get his attention, all smiles and formal titles, strangers who knew his face from the Starfleet newsvids. He squeezed past the ones in his way and tuned out the rest with an expertise developed from a dozen command lectures.

“Jim! Over here!” Standing back toward the stage and waving both arms was someone impossible to ignore. Partly because he could revoke Jim’s synthesizer dessert privileges on a whim, and partly because he was wearing the ugliest getup Jim had ever seen. Jim froze, transfixed by the flared pant legs and v-neck better suited to an Orion slave girl.

“Excuse me, pardon me, coming through.” Bones forced his way to Jim’s side through an obstacle course of alien body parts, wardrobes, and personal bubbles.

“Doctor McCoy,” Jim said, by way of greeting. He smiled sheepishly, his behavior last night coming back to him in an unwelcome flash. Then he looked Bones over again, and the smile turned genuine. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I could say the same thing. Where were you, Jim?”

“Back in the nosebleed section. You?”

“Front row seat.” McCoy grinned. “Spock pulled some strings. You should have come sooner.”

Stirred up by a dozen minor annoyances, Jim couldn’t match his enthusiasm. “I didn’t know about the room change until–”

“Why speak of the devil! And I mean that literally.” McCoy gestured past Jim and waved someone behind him closer.

“Doctor, your persistence in comparing me to a figure out of Earth religion will never make that comparison valid,” Spock said as he came up beside them both. He nodded at Jim and clasped his hands behind his back. “Captain.” He was positively glowing, and Jim felt like the collateral damage of that academic bliss.

“Excellent lecture, Mr. Spock.” He patted Spock’s shoulder without thought.

“Thank you, Captain.” The guarded look Spock shot him lasted half a second, but it was long enough to make Jim kick himself.

“Much more accessible than I expected,” McCoy said, saving both of them with his presence. “Have you ever thought about teaching?”

Spock quirked an eyebrow. “I have considered it.”

“You’d be great, I’m sure,” Jim said.

“What about you, Jim? I bet the Academy would kill to have a professor with your real-world experience.”

“If they make me an admiral, I won’t have a choice. The youngest ones always get roped into classroom duty.” Jim hadn’t meant for that to sound defeatist, but McCoy’s brow furrowed in concern, and an awkward pause ensued. It looked like neither of his friends wanted to touch that particular issue with a ten foot pole, and he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or put out.

“Say, why don’t we hit the underground in a couple hours?” McCoy suggested suddenly, referring to the network of clubs buried beneath the station. “Celebrate Spock making half the astrophysicists on this station blow a gasket. Chekov told me it’s a hell of a time.”

“Does that description constitute an endorsement, or a negative review?” Spock said.

“Well now, that’s all a matter of perspective,” McCoy said. “You’ll never know until you try.”

“One could apply the same principle to such activities as solar surfing, and  _le-matya_  hunting, and–”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture.” McCoy snorted and turned to Jim, who shook his head in mock disapproval at their banter. “That’s all right. More fun for the rest of us.”

The thought of flashing lights and faux-Orion dancers could not have been less appealing to Jim, but he had no idea how to explain that. Not when he was usually the one chomping at the bit, with recommendations of the local venues to boot. He had no real excuse to be tired or work-bound on shore leave, and faking an illness wasn’t an option when one of the two men confronting him probably had a medical scanner hidden in his back pocket.

“I can’t,” he said, and floundered for moment. “I… convinced Maeve to give me another chance.”

“Oh?” Bones said, his expression surprised but genuinely pleased. “That’s great, Jim. ’Course, you won’t learn anything now, but I’m happy for you.”

“There’s always another day for life lessons.” Jim dredged up a smile. “And that day is not today.”

“Are you referring to Dr. Maeve Patel, perhaps?” Spock peered at him, unreadable, and Jim wished he could melt into the floor.

“The very same,” he said.

“Jim took her out yesterday and didn’t impress.” McCoy snorted, nudging Jim with an elbow. “A doctor, huh? You didn’t tell me that part. My kind or his?”

“Yours, actually.”

“Well I’ll be. What’s her area?”

Jim watched Spock out of the corner of his eye throughout the ensuing interrogation. Speak now or forever hold your peace, some juvenile part of his mind taunted, despite all his good intentions. When it became clear Spock wasn’t going to say anything, let alone offer a ludicrous objection, he relaxed into uneasy disappointment.

At last McCoy’s curiosity was satisfied, and he took aim at a new target. “What about you, Spock? Any excuses beyond being a stick in the mud?”

“I had planned on participating in an open house at the observatory,” Spock said. “There will be a special emphasis on various species’ mythologies as they relate to astronomical nomenclature.” He hesitated for a moment and addressed Jim, just as casual as you please, in the same tone he had used for dismantling scientific dogma half an hour ago. “Perhaps you could bring Dr. Patel.”

“That’s a great idea.” McCoy waggled his eyebrows. “Nothing more romantic than a little stargazing.”

Jim feigned casual consideration and seethed beneath his skin. Don’t be kind to me, he wanted to say to Spock. Don’t look at me like I’m some dubious sample under a microscope. And don’t you dare suggest I fool around with someone else right in front of you just to convince you everything is fine. He couldn’t take this stilted, careful politeness, this hopeful scrutiny masquerading as friendship.

“Thanks for the tip, Spock,” he said.

***

Jim attacked piles of digital paperwork with a motivation he’d been lacking for a long time. There were only three or so months left in the mission, and he had countless recommendations to write and final reports to consider, not to mention the usual administrative grind. He wanted to leave the  _Enterprise_  flawless both in person and on paper, and if it took him the rest of the conference to get ahead of the game, so be it. At least he could recline on a bed fit for an eighteenth century orgy while he worked.

His doorbell chimed around twenty two hundred, and he scooted up against the pillows, afterimages swimming in front of his eyes. He shook his head and summoned the vid feed on the bedside control panel. Paused with his finger on the com button, then migrated to the desk before opening the channel.

“Come in.” He didn’t look up when the door slid open and shut again, although he stopped reading mid-sentence. “Something on your mind, Commander?”

“You did not attend the astronomy event,” Spock said. “Dr. Patel did.”

Jim’s heart rate suggested he ought to leap up and flee the scene. He shrugged away the urge. “Maybe I called it off.”

Spock remained motionless in his peripheral vision, rooted to the floor. “No,” he said, the slow flavor of comprehension shading his voice. “You were baiting me. Attempting to provoke jealousy.”

He had done no such thing on purpose, but as far as he was concerned, Spock had forfeited the right to know that. “Interesting choice of words, Mr. Spock.” Jim tapped his stylus against the PADD a little too hard. “You make it sound like I succeeded.”

Spock ignored the accusation. “I was under the impression we would carry on with our lives as if nothing had occurred,” he said. As if what had happened between them was a minor inconvenience to be swept under the rug.

“We were,” Jim said, voice just shy of patronizing. “You’re the one who barged in here because I lied about a date.”

“We were not. Your discontent has been… most evident to me.” Uncomfortable silence surrounded them, and Jim refused to end it first. His reluctance got him blindsided. “What must I do to preserve our friendship?”

Jim glanced up for the first time, and his twisted satisfaction faded at the sight of Spock pretending to be a statue. It was too good an impression – the effort put into it was obvious.

Damn it.

His impulses had gotten him in trouble before, but never like this. The kind of danger his rashness tended to provoke might take an arm or a leg, but never a vital piece of him. Never a valuable confidant, his right hand and his conscience.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, setting the PADD aside. “I’ll get over it. This is my problem, not yours.”

“Perhaps it was before, but that has not been the case for approximately two point one days,” Spock said.

“I never should have gone to the domes.” Jim scrubbed a hand over his jaw, stubble rough against his palm. “Look, the other night, I didn’t think–”

“Correct,” Spock said, an eruption that seemed to startle them both. “You did not think about my heritage. You did not think about my wishes. You touched me in a manner that attempted to redefine what we are to one another at the most fundamental level, and it did not even occur to you to  _ask_.”

His escalation made Jim bold. “Would you have said yes?”

“What?”

“If I had asked.”

“Likely not.”

Then I’m glad I didn’t, Jim thought fiercely. If the alternative was to spend the rest of my life never having done that, I’m glad I didn’t ask. Too quickly, though, reality set in. Those weren’t his real options. The real options, had he bothered learning them at the time, were to either keep Spock or kiss him, and Jim had already made the dumbest decision of his life.

Bones was right. About everything. The realization crushed all the acrimony out of him, leaving flat exhaustion behind. He had been acting like a child throwing a tantrum, and he deserved whatever repercussions came his way.

“I’m sorry, Spock. I should have told you before,” he said. He stood up sharply and barely caught the desk chair before it toppled over, heart thudding against his chest like a trapped animal. He dropped his eyes and clung to the back of the chair, tracing its carved whorls with a thumb. “I’m a little out of my depth here.”

“I understand. Your streaks of arrogance have rarely failed you in the past.” From anyone else that might been an insult, but Spock rattled it off as impersonal fact. “Vulcans and humans are very different,” he added darkly, when Jim made it clear he wasn’t about to argue.

“I know. And I swear to you, I wouldn’t have done it unless I thought there was a chance,” he said. “Unless I thought you wanted it too.”

“Then I did mislead you.”

“No. I don’t know.” Jim tugged the wrinkles out of his shirt and started pacing. He thought he understood Spock better than the man’s parents, better than any Vulcan elder or doctor, better than Spock himself. How could he have been so blind? “I still can’t believe it,” he admitted, the words escaping him in the tenor of a disbelieving laugh. He rubbed his eyes, and the darkness lent him the courage to keep going. “If I was wrong about you, I could be wrong about anything.”

“You cannot believe it,” Spock echoed. “Even now?”

“Even now.”

“Then how am I to convince you?”

The question might have been rhetorical, but Jim had an answer nonetheless. It came to him like a slap across the face, halting him mid-stride. He turned toward a visibly frustrated Vulcan and crossed his arms. “Meld with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Maybe Jim should have backed down, but he was tired of playing games. “Show me what you feel, and I’ll have no choice but to believe it,” he said.

“You would not demand this of anyone else.” Spock’s voice was tight, almost threatening.

“I’m not making demands. I’m just pointing out you have a tool at your disposal that could clear this up in an instant. Something more powerful than words,” Jim said. “Wouldn’t it be logical to use it?”

Spock looked away, and his brows knit together. Jim waited, inching closer to the edge of panic, another apology – or something like an apology – gathering in his throat. Tell me to stop, he thought. I’m in the wrong here, this isn’t fair, I don’t deserve the time of day from you.

“Very well.”

Before Jim could say a word, Spock had abandoned his post by the door and crossed the space between them. Action and reaction flowed through Jim, bypassing his brain, and he tilted his chin back. An invitation or a simple response to Spock’s height, he couldn’t say. Either way it felt like baring his throat. He kept his arms crossed to brace his upper half, make it less obvious he was shaking at the knees.

Spock placed his fingertips on Jim’s face with the detached precision of a surgeon, tiny points of ice splayed across the numb heat of his skin. Jim closed his eyes and tried to relax, anticipating the sensation of another mind infiltrating his own, cool and fluid like quicksilver. The way it had when Spock came to him on the verge of a crash, and soothed the worst violation in a long string of personal assaults.

But that sensation never came. Minutes passed, and an itch on Jim’s nose went from annoyance to minor torture, but he was afraid any movement would snap Spock to his senses. Maybe it wouldn’t matter though, because for all the posturing, Spock gave no sign he was about to start. No ritual words, no finger adjustments, no serene presence floating just beyond Jim’s grasp. Only the sound of his own breath and heart.

It had never taken this long before. Hell, he’d watched Spock connect with a rock-melting blob of silicon in far less time. Please just get it over with, he thought. Grant me this one thing. Make it easier for both of us.

Still no meld.

His impatience brought fresh awareness to him, like thunder rolling over distant hills.

“You can’t do it,” Jim said. “Why can’t you…”

Spock said nothing, and Jim opened his eyes. His first officer’s face was borderline horrorstruck, his gaze directed at some nonexistent point beyond Jim. His fingers dragged down Jim’s cheek and fell off his jaw, curling into a fist by his side. He didn’t have to say anything for Jim to understand.

Because it was dawning on him now that ‘likely not’ meant there was still a chance, technically speaking. And Spock was the most technically precise person he knew. He connected the dots and came up with a question he’d never had to ask before.

“Can I kiss you?”

Spock shut his eyes. “Yes.”

One word, no more substantial than a draft of air, but it might as well have been a gale force wind for all the effect it had on Jim. Probability collapsed into certainty, and the floor swayed, and his blood roared in his ears. He wasn’t wrong. He was never wrong to begin with. High on an adrenaline rush like no other, he grabbed Spock’s arms and pressed their lips together.

This time Spock kissed him back. He tilted into Jim, the rigid lines of his frame melting, his movements tentative but eager. He slanted his neck and brought their mouths together more firmly, and his hands came to rest on Jim’s shoulders, fingers bunching and releasing the gold fabric. Jim wrapped an arm around Spock’s waist and felt a delicate, fluttering heartbeat against his elbow. Spock was cool to the touch, but the way his lips held Jim’s ignited liquid heat that pooled at his groin.

Abruptly Spock broke them apart and released a shuddering exhale. He looked startled, like a man waking up in a strange room, perched somewhere between shock and fascination. Dark, nervous eyes flitted down the length of Jim’s body, and that obvious curiosity was the last sign Jim needed. He took half a step closer until they were almost chest-to-chest, and a hardness to match his own pushed into his hip.

Grinning, he took Spock’s hand and tugged him toward the bed.

The tension between them snapped in an instant. Spock turned frantic, climbing on top of Jim, all jabbing knees and elbows as they scrambled toward the center of the mattress. He tore at Jim’s clothes, peeling off both shirts and tossing them aside. The black one caught Jim’s arm, twisting his shoulder when Spock yanked it free, but if there was any pain, he couldn’t feel it. He was too busy exploring the wiry body above him, shoving his hands under Spock’s uniform tunic. Subtracting some clothes did nothing to relieve the heat that scorched his nerves like wildfire – the only thing that helped was touching every square inch of cool, bare skin he could reach.

Spock must have gotten the hint, because he sat up to peel off his own shirts, and Jim drank in the sight of him; lean muscles, disheveled hair, wild eyes in a solemn face. Jim’s cock throbbed, painfully confined in his pants and trapped under Spock’s weight. A thousand new and jumbled desires bloomed in his head.

He probably ought to say something to mark the occasion, but words escaped him as Spock descended again and claimed his mouth. What Spock lacked in skill he more than made up for in enthusiasm. Every kiss was clinging, determined, deliciously wet and possessive. Jim shivered and licked the seam of Spock’s lips until they parted, allowing him entrance. It wasn’t long after that clumsy hands fumbled at the clasp of his pants.

“Let me, let me,” he said, shoving Spock away to undo them himself. But his hands were shaking too, and he swore under his breath.

It didn’t help that Spock refused to give him enough room to maneuver. He kept bending over, crushing against Jim like he couldn’t stand to leave any space between them. Raining kisses on Jim’s lips, his neck, his collarbone. His chest hair grazed Jim’s nipples, drawing them to hard points. Had that always felt so damn good? Jim couldn’t remember. His fingers slipped again at their task as he gasped into Spock’s mouth, startled by the low buzz of pleasure that went straight to his cock.

This wasn’t going to work. Jim grunted in frustration and flipped them over, straddling Spock’s waist. Aided by the better vantage point, he got his pants open in a flash, shoving them down just far enough to free his erection before he went after Spock.

For all their mission mishaps and shared bathroom run-ins, Jim had only glimpsed Spock naked once before, during a strip search on John Gill’s Fourth Reich revival planet. He looked just enough like a human that someone might mistake him in the dark, except his resting state was half-retracted into his body, and he didn’t have balls or a defined glans. Jim dragged Spock’s pants and briefs down, and was pleased to note he was definitely not in his resting state.

He layered himself against Spock, situated between Spock’s legs, and pressed their cocks together. An involuntary jolt seized him, electric and consuming. He groaned and Spock’s breath hitched like an echo. His hands snaked around Jim’s back, and Jim dropped his forehead against a bony shoulder, inhaling the peppery scent of Spock’s skin. He leaned on one elbow as they moved, skating his free hand along the line of Spock’s waist, slipping it between his back and the bed.

He kneaded the taut, narrow muscles of Spock’s ass and entertained a brief fantasy of plunging into him, being surrounded by the tight warmth of his body. But all the necessary supplies were stashed in a travel bag across the room, and Jim’s willpower to stop and retrieve them was nonexistent. There would be time enough for that later. Right now all that mattered was releasing the pressure of half a decade’s misspent pining before they combusted.

Jim rolled his hips, guiding Spock with the hand clutching his ass. Sweat trickled down his spine, dripped from his chest, smoothing their thrusts. Then Spock licked one of the droplets trailing down his neck, and Jim lost track of his own physical boundaries, caught in a feverish feedback loop.

Every moment that passed he felt less like a person and more like a patchwork of sensations, tangled together by a single, raw need. He was absorbed utterly by the coarse rasp of Spock’s hair, the firmness of his thighs, the heady scent of his arousal. The warm, slick, solid weight of his cock rubbing next to Jim’s. Finally the pressure in his balls gathered tight and surged past the point of no return. He went rigid with pleasure, rocking helplessly against Spock as he spent himself between their stomachs.

Spock tensed along with him powerfully enough that for a moment, Jim assumed he had come too. But he didn’t make a sound, and he was still hard when Jim rolled off to catch his breath. Head deliciously cleared by orgasm, Jim set about fixing that.

He closed his hand around Spock’s erection and gave it a few careful strokes, gliding the velvety foreskin over the head. God, he was sensitive. Strangled, brittle moans escaped him now when nothing louder than panting had before. Jim carefully wet his hand with the moisture at the base, tracing curious fingers along the slit where the shaft emerged.

“Please…”

The hoarse appeal made Jim pause and study Spock. It was so quiet he wondered if he had heard it at all, or if his senses were still fried and misfiring in the wake of his orgasm.

Spock’s eyes were shut tight, and one arm was thrown over his forehead, and his hands clung to the sheets. He gave no sign he had spoken, and he was so responsive to Jim’s touch, his hips lifting up and his chest heaving. His face haggard with desire and his mouth slack with it. Jim reclined closer beside him and started stroking him again with a firm and deliberate pace. Denial was hell, and purging it after a lifetime had to be difficult.

He brushed his mouth against Spock’s neck, sucked on the edge of a pointed ear, hardly aware of the murmured encouragements spilling from his lips. “That’s good, don’t hold back, let it go…”

It was incredible, making Spock overload. Jim watched the battle play out over every crease on his face, every gasp and fluttering cord of tension. The little charges of Vulcan restraint and disastrous retreats that wiped any trace of control away. Under less intimate circumstances, Spock would be dragging his feet against an overwhelming adversary. He was making faint sounds that were half gasp and half sob, but then they muted altogether, the unmistakable calm before the storm.

He was beautiful when he came, all reluctance and intensity. Jim could see him fight it until the last possible millisecond, when his body switched to autopilot and his head snapped back, and for a few moments of his life, logic didn’t exist. A sound somewhere between anguish and ecstasy tore itself from his throat.

His back snapped into an arch, freezing him in time for a moment, and warm fluid trickled over Jim’s fist. Jim stroked him through it, awestruck. Had someone tipped him off that Spock concealed this level of passion a few years ago, he might have had his revelation and thrown caution to the wind much sooner.

Spock collapsed onto the bed, his faint cringe prompting Jim to stop, although it took a long time for him to come down. His harsh, rapid breathing was almost worrisome, but soon he visibly started reigning his nervous system back into line. His rib cage slowed its halting rise and fall. His eyes shone, and his skin was flushed with an odd, jaundiced hue. When Jim moved in for a kiss, it took him several dazed seconds to respond. He closed his lips around Jim’s so lightly that it wasn’t clear whether they were kissing or absorbed in the simple brush of skin on skin, sharing the air between them.

Jim heaved a sigh, sprawled onto his back, and grinned at the ceiling for a while, stupid glitched-out mural and all. He didn’t think he would ever stop. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been sated to the point of utter exhaustion, let alone from half an hour of frottage.

“That was…”

“Instructive,” Spock supplied. His voice carried the rasp of exertion.

“I was going to say remarkable,” Jim glanced over at his unlikely bedmate, who seemed quite absorbed in the ceiling too. But Jim had seen him in a pensive mood enough times to know when he wasn’t actually looking at what was right in front of him. When his surroundings were a mere backdrop for his thoughts. “Are you sleeping tonight?”

“I had planned on it,” he said, after a long pause.

“Good.” Jim reluctantly slid out of bed, kicked his pants off his ankles before they could hobble him, and paid a visit to the cavernous bathroom. He returned with a wet washcloth and found Spock still adrift in his head, hands folded atop his solar plexus. Spock flinched when Jim placed the cloth on his stomach, and the wide-eyed dismay that claimed his face was priceless.

“Sorry. Cold water works best,” Jim said. Spock relaxed and nodded, and Jim scrubbed the mess on his abdomen as gently as possible. He hesitated when he got low enough to brush Spock’s penis, deceptively small now that part of it had retreated inside. Just the tip was wet with their activities, and Jim cleaned it with infinite care. Spock pulled up his briefs and pants when Jim was done, still sensitive enough to shudder at the touch of the fabric. He kicked off his boots, forgotten in their haste, which hit the floor with a faint thud.

Essentials out of the way, Jim wrestled with the sheets for a minute to untuck them and pull them over himself and Spock. Then he dimmed the lights, shut off the ceiling with a slurred command that had to be repeated twice, and gratefully sank onto a pillow. Gave in to the blissful lassitude that strengthened gravity’s pull on his limbs.

Spock shifted in the dark beside Jim, facing away from him. Jim took that as an invitation, but when he put a hand on Spock’s waist and moved closer, Spock’s entire frame tensed. He curled his limbs together into something approaching a fetal position, and Jim backed off, disappointed but not surprised that Vulcans weren’t enthusiastic about cuddling. In any case, Spock probably needed some time to think without the distraction of another body wrapped around him, and all the delicate coordination that required.

So did Jim, as a matter of fact. He had to consider whether following regulation at this point would be worth the trouble. Who they could trust to tell, who they were obligated to tell, and who shouldn’t be told under any circumstances. If this was finally it for him, one thing gone right after a lifetime of false starts and disappointments.

A future minus the  _Enterprise_ , which suddenly looked a lot more bearable.

Night had come to their side of Jupiter. Jim watched an aurora flicker on the dark sliver of the planet visible from his window until sleep dragged him under.

***

Christmas morning, and the snow drifts were piled halfway up the windows. Dad was home for the first time in months, but he and mom weren’t speaking much. Jim was too young to understand, but not too young to notice. He also didn’t understand why he felt like pouting, because you were supposed to be happy when your father was around, not hung up on the times he wasn’t.

All was forgiven though, when Jim opened the scale model of a starship. Most of the time mom said no to space toys (“Please don’t encourage them. One absent member of this family is enough”), but when Jim looked for her response, she smiled. Absolved of any indirect wrongdoing, he tore open the package and pulled out the model.

Constitution class. Some distant part of him knew this ship shouldn’t exist yet, but everything was tinged with an unreal haze, blurred around the edges. Besides, he was too busy studying the model in all of its detailed perfection.

He peered into the tiny portals of the G deck rec room and watched a party in progress. He saw his tiny future self in satiny gold, and another figure in blue, both hunkered down in a corner by a holographic fireplace. The snowed-in world of his living room frayed around him. Then he was there in the flesh, reliving a memory.

“She did not participate in the traditions of her heritage.”

“Not even Christmas?”

“That is what I said.” Spock’s eyes crinkled faintly.

“Hmm.”

An interruption as Lieutenant Roberts stumbled past singing “O Holy Night,” tipsy on eggnog but perfectly in tune. His friends followed, trying to support him both physically and musically without much success.

“How did that happen, anyway?” Jim said, once the merry horde had moved to a safe distance. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, studying his first officer. “I’ve been wanting to ask you for awhile.”

“Could you clarify?

“Your parents,” Jim said. “I mean that in the broadest way possible.”

Spock thought about that for a long moment. “My mother learned to subdue her nature through practice and an exceptionally strong will,” he said. “Remember that you met her at her worst. Stress tends to inflame her human side.”

Jim frowned slightly at the implication that Amanda’s humanity constituted the worst part of her, but he pressed on with a question that had just occurred to him. “What about your father?”

“What about him?”

“Isn’t he subduing his nature too? He obviously loves her.”

Visible hesitation. Spock’s focus drifted to his hands where they were laced around an empty champagne glass. “He is committed to her well-being. He finds her company stimulating. He tolerates her idiosyncrasies.”

“That’s what I said.” Jim shot Spock a teasing grin, but his friend adopted an almost stern expression in response.

“A Vulcan marriage is based upon logic, not passion. My mother’s adherence to several important tenants of logic is what permitted them to form a successful union,” he said. Jim thought that would be the end of it, but Spock kept going, his tone muted and strangely confessional. “I suppose, hypothetically, the reverse situation could have occurred. However, I have immense difficulty imagining that any Vulcan could exhibit the degree of emotionalism humans require of their intimate relationships without… significant detriments.”

Another strange tangent. Did Spock really believe all human relationships were wildly emotional? A topic for another time, Jim thought, but maybe he could test the waters now. “Why choose one or the other?” he said. “Can’t it be both?”

Spock looked like he was about to say something, then decided against it. He grunted vaguely and went back to watching the antics of the Christmas party’s stragglers.

Discussion on the subject killed by some unnamed indiscretion, Jim also redirected his attention to the room at large. Decorations hung askew, abandoned cups riddled every surface, and the string of lights around the devastated buffet table flickered, on its last legs. His eyes were drawn to the half-eaten tower of confectionary delight resting at the end of the buffet. It wasn’t as impressive as it had been a few hours ago, but Jim knew firsthand that appearances were deceiving.

“I’m tempted to steal the rest of that croquembouche,” he announced, nodding at his target. “Hide it in my room.”

“Such an act of sedition against your crew would not befit your command, Captain.”

“But if nobody sees it happen…”

Spock raised an eyebrow, asserting both his presence and the fact that he could see.

“Why, my Vulcan friend, you aren’t  _nobody_!” Jim grinned. “You really shouldn’t put yourself down like that.”

His first officer almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes. “Most illogical,” he said, like a Greek chorus commenting on the madness of his surroundings.

“I’ll say. You’re far too accomplished to develop self-esteem issues.” Jim leaned in conspiratorially and touched a blue-clad shoulder. “Tell you what. If you lend me a hand, you’ll get a third of the spoils.”

He wouldn’t have been surprised if Spock said no, but his first officer seemed to be giving the matter some serious contemplation. “Half,” he said abruptly.

Jim laughed, relief and delight in quick succession driving him up and out of his chair. He looked down his nose at Spock, planting his hands on his hips. “It was my idea. Forty percent, and you get first pick.”

“Half.” Spock raised both eyebrows now in an obvious challenge, and just for an instant, looked like he was about to smile. Jim was transfixed in suspense, waiting on a Christmas miracle that never quite came. Eventually he got tired of waiting and conceded defeat.

“You drive a hard bargain, Commander. I accept.” He held out a hand for Spock to shake, and was surprised when Spock used it as leverage to haul himself to his feet. They both surveyed their goal, then exchanged a wordless glance before springing into action.

This was how they worked so well together, Jim thought as they reached the last corridor, his trusty Vulcan lookout scouting ahead for witnesses. Sometimes Spock kept Jim in line, and sometimes Jim gave Spock an excuse to do things he wanted to do, but couldn’t without a little strategic persuasion. Nine times out of ten, the tug of war between Spock’s two halves ended with the human side eating the dust. Jim always did like helping the underdog.


	3. Ashes

_Ashes_

  
  


The clock on the ornate nightstand read twelve hundred, glowing gold in the darkness. Jim stared at it, disoriented, struggling to remember if the station used Standard time or an old-fashioned scheme to match the decor. One meant he had only been asleep a couple hours, and the other that he had overslept worse than his school days. The groggy sludge clogging his head and an AM indicator light told him the former case was true.

He glanced over his shoulder at an empty bed.

The other side was made as neatly as possible given Jim’s presence. If it weren’t for the scent of cedar clinging to the sheets, mingled with the unmistakable smell of sex, Jim might have doubted his sanity. He listened for running water or the sonic shower, footsteps, anything at all. He heard nothing except the low, dull drone of the station’s power feeds, different enough from the  _Enterprise_ that it couldn’t soothe him in quite the same way.

“Computer, where is Commander Spock?”

//There are three individuals by the name of Spock and the rank ‘commander’ currently present on this station.//

Jim blinked. It had never really occurred to him before that Spock’s name wasn’t made up out of thin air, but part of his background, shared by other Vulcans. “Where is Spock of the  _U.S.S._   _Enterprise_?” he tried.

//Biological Sciences Laboratory C.//

Knowing Spock, he probably had some experiment running that required round-the-clock maintenance. Callisto Station boasted equipment too large to fit on a starship, and most of the ship’s scientists had requested lab time. Many were pulling all-nighters to finish up their projects before departure. Regardless, Jim didn’t have the energy to go on a wild goose chase in the middle of the night. He stole the vacated pillow and slid back into a restless sleep.

***

The last day of the conference, they saw little of each other. Spock was making social and professional calls all over the station, addressing the debates his lectures had stirred up, and Jim didn’t want to get in the way. They exchanged a look at breakneck speeds as they passed one another in the station hub, and Jim smiled to himself whenever he recalled how Spock had almost run smack into a column, unable to tear his eyes away.

Jim kept busy, navigating his way around the station with a bounce in his step even though he got lost half a dozen times. He met with the crew that had inspected the  _Enterprise_ during docking, and talked down a very peeved Scotty, who could never trust outsiders with the engine modifications. He attended a showcase on vibrational healing and found a delighted Uhura playing assistant for the presenter’s hung-over colleague. He caught up with McCoy at an expert panel on alien reproductive biology and laughed harder than he had in ages.

“So how did it go last night?” McCoy pressed him as they veered into the food court for lunch. “Well, I take it?”

“You might say that.” Jim tried and failed to contain his grin.

“Oh? What else might I say?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Bones.”

“A gentleman? Who? Where?” McCoy made a show of peering through the crowds of hungry conference denizens.

Jim ignored that and went for retaliation. “How does spaghetti sound to you?” he said with feigned innocence, scooping up a tray.

McCoy blinked, and then it registered, and his face contorted in disgust. “Oh, very funny.”

“What? Don’t tell me a medical man is so easily affected by descriptions of Arcturian sperm fibers.”

“Now look here–”

But Jim was already making his way toward the Tellarite section of the food court. There might be a lot of unfair and derogatory rhetoric directed at Tellarites from the other three founding species, but no one dared insult their cuisine.

McCoy caught up with him after a brief, flailing struggle with the automatic napkin dispenser. “I don’t care what anybody looks like under the knife, and that’s what counts,” he said as they eyed up the menu together. “My plate, however, is a different story.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“I mean it! It’s never the physical that disturbs me, not really. It’s the behavioral.” He brandished a fork at Jim’s nose. “How many aliens have we met who looked exactly like us, even  _acted_  like us, but turned out to be something different?”

“There’s not enough space on my walls to keep a running tally,” Jim said.

“Exactly.” McCoy snorted. “What do you think my liquor stash is for?”

“Bureaucracy. Transporters. Spock.”

“That too.”

“No wonder it’s so impressive.” Jim tapped the order screen for authentic sweetberry salad, crossing his fingers that McCoy didn’t know it was practically a dessert.

They parted ways after lunch, and Jim found himself with a few blank hours to kill, the weary block of time after a conference ended and before everyone cleared out. He lingered at the station hub for a while, exchanging contact information with new acquaintances and tall tales with old ones, watching the bedraggled masses haul luggage toward the elevator terminal. Around thirteen hundred he decided to check in with Spock and make sure all their ducks were in a row before departure that night. Maybe they could spend some time giving his room a proper send-off afterwards, he thought, allowing the quiet thrill he had suppressed all day to escape for a moment or two.

But the task of checking in proved difficult. Spock’s communicator was off, and the com system at his location deactivated, set to some kind of do-not-disturb mode. Which struck Jim as odd, considering they were a few hours away from active duty. It wasn’t like Spock to be out of touch, although admittedly, Jim didn’t have much of a precedent for the man’s behavior on shore leave.

Eventually, with the dubious assistance of a computer that sometimes mixed up right and left, Jim tracked Spock down in a distant corner of the station. The trip involved taking a lift some two miles below Callisto’s surface, past the underground and its round-the-clock parties, to a network of claustrophobic hallways and isolated rooms. An unsettling number of doors had warning signs plastered over them for radiation, high voltage, toxins, and a multitude of other hazards Jim didn’t recognize; bright splotches of color in the otherwise gray hallways. He almost passed the nondescript plaque that read ‘Relativity Lab Four.’

The dim room within was no bigger than Jim’s quarters on the  _Enterprise_ , and its walls were lined with computers; hulking, dusty, nitro-cooled rigs that had to be at least a decade old. The heat they gave off made Jim break into a sweat almost instantly. Panel lights blinked like tidy swarms of multicolored fireflies. Power cables and coolant tubes crisscrossed the ceiling, and the low hum of coursing electrons seemed to vibrate in his gut.

There was Spock, almost facing away from him, sitting on an uncomfortable-looking stool. Slouching, really, hunched over a console screen. A small organic blip in a room full of straight edges and whirring machines. He glanced up just long enough to recognize Jim. “Captain.”

“Mr. Spock.” Jim smiled and took a few steps until the door shut.

It still surprised him how the sight of his first officer’s spare frame could light up his nerves so powerfully. He watched Spock work for a moment from the doorway, eyes lingering on his slender lines, the sharp angles of his face, and the curve of his spine, which snapped straight a moment later as he swiveled to face a second console. Jim moved closer to inspect what Spock was doing, but mostly for the sake of moving closer.

“Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

“I just thought we should touch base before we’re underway,” Jim said. “But you’re a hard man to find.”

“I am sorry if I caused you inconvenience.” Spock still didn’t look at Jim as he spoke, and his tone was distant, like he wasn’t all there. “I wished to minimize the potential for signal interference. Any incoming data could interfere with the readings.”

“What sort of readings?” Jim peered over Spock’s shoulder, but the fluctuating lines and numbers on the monitor didn’t make much sense to him.

“Gravitational waves,” Spock said. “They are an elusive phenomenon, even with the best equipment.”

“Oh?” Someone with more self-restraint might have kept the conversation innocent, but Jim had none left to spare. Not after his perfectly professional response to ‘is there something I can do for you.’ He leaned in close to a pointed ear and watched the delicate bob of Spock’s throat as he swallowed. “Speaking of elusive, I missed you this morning.” He placed his hand on the small of Spock’s back.

An almost imperceptible current of tension rippled through the point of contact. Spock’s fingers stilled on the input keys, and he ducked his head ever so slightly. “I did not require much sleep,” he said.

Jim’s hand dropped along with the pit of his stomach, and his senses went blank for a moment. Cold realization bristled at the back of his neck, circled around his throat like a vise. The amalgam of poor lighting and rosy expectations had obscured something critical, but the details were finally falling into place. There was a bleak, stubborn aura hanging over Spock that Jim had only seen before after a very specific kind of mission: the ones that compromised him from the inside.

“If you will excuse me, Captain.” Spock stood up fast enough that his stool almost tipped backward. “You can expect my final report two hours prior to departure.”

Then he was gone, leaving Jim paralyzed in an empty room.

Ever since Carol Marcus had dragged him out of the library and into her bed all those years ago, Jim had always dove in headfirst when it came to sex. He prided himself on being in tune with his partners, on picking up their wordless cues and adjusting his approach. On bringing the best possible pleasure to everyone involved. He trusted his instincts, and experience had given him no reason to doubt them.

Then why did it feel like Spock was hanging by a thread?

He remembered something from the official records of an ill-fated alien wedding, the words seeping out of the console-lit gloom. Something Spock had said to T’Pring while Jim was passed out in the dust:  _After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting._ And again, last night:  _Vulcans and humans are very different._

A creeping, shadowy wrongness tied knots into Jim’s shoulders and forced a new wash of sweat through his pores that had nothing to do with the heat. His heart shuddered with an abstract knowledge, which coalesced into a hunch, which rapidly became a conclusion that explained Spock’s behavior far too well. Jim had misread his friend again, worse than before, and he had no idea how.

***

The rest of the day passed in a literal sickening blur. Jim prowled the  _Enterprise_ ’s corridors, snapping at mundane mistakes, hovering over minor system checks and data entries. Counting down the hours. When it became obvious he was making his subordinates nervous, he retired to his quarters and started logging conference notes instead. Every time his focus wavered, even for a second, the possibilities started spiraling out of control. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to reign them back in, remind himself he shouldn’t jump to conclusions until he had all the facts.

He wasn’t ready when Spock showed up, despite knowing it was coming, despite unlocking his door and keeping one eye on the clock. The Vulcan’s appearance was a shock to the system, mostly because of the way he regarded Jim, impassive and cold.

“I have prioritized our last round of assignments and submitted them for your review, Captain,” he said, nodding toward Jim’s console. “The first course will be activated at nineteen hundred.”

“Very good, Mr. Spock,” Jim said, forcing a smile. “I don’t expect I’ll have to change anything.” He waited for a response, any response, but Spock showed no sign of either speaking or leaving. He just stood there staring at his boots, looking a little lost. Jim could ask if there was anything else, but the question would be disingenuous at best. “We should talk,” he said. Not quite like pulling teeth, but close.

“Agreed,” Spock said.

“Please, sit down.”

Spock didn’t move. Neither of them said a word for what had to be a full minute, and it occurred to Jim that he wasn’t really used to this talking thing. He understood the principle just fine, even practiced it on a regular basis, but some topics were beyond the scope of his experience or comfort. He skimmed the open document on his console until the words looked like nonsense.

But one of them had to start eventually, and seniority put him on the hook. He took a deep breath and released it. “Are you all right?”

Spock’s silence lasted far too long. “I miscalculated,” he said.

What terrible disease had Jim contracted, that two simple words could shake him to his foundations? A thousand possible responses blended together in his mind, demands and questions, unkind words and pathetic pleas. He seized the most urgent thread among them and struggled to set it loose. “I didn’t… did I do something wrong?”

“The error was mine,” Spock said. “I apologize for having taken advantage of your good intentions.”

Jim was about to reassure Spock that he did nothing of the sort. But he didn’t know that for sure, though the very idea made him sick to his stomach. “What do you mean, error?”

“I would rather not discuss it.”

“Spock–”

“I misjudged myself,” he said abruptly. “My approach was experimental, and the results were not...” An agonized pause, and for the second time in as many days, Spock’s voice fractured. “Please, Captain. Do not ask me to elaborate further.”

The words smashed into Jim, wrecking any lingering illusions he clung to about his first officer’s state of mind. Just when he thought he understood, that he had won the ultimate marathon, the blindfold came off and revealed he had been running in place.

Talk was overrated, he decided bitterly. He would rather they spend their last months together in uncomfortable silence, pretending last night had never happened, than know he was some kind of human lab rat in whatever mind games Spock was inflicting on himself.

They were always better off star-hopping, with the promise of danger hovering over their heads and little time for personal visits. Safer caught in the rhythm of command, the constant presence of others enforcing professionalism. When showing affection and throwing themselves into work were synonymous. Blur the ranks for a day or two, give Jim the space to breathe and an ambiguous future staring him in the face, and it was inevitable their dynamic would change. Jim never dreamed it would change so disastrously.

He shut down. He hadn’t needed to do that in awhile, but it wasn’t difficult after so many years of practice. The foundations were laid during Tarsus, and brick by brick, he had built a place to retreat to when death cast its shadow over his crew, when he had to weigh the cost of one life versus the timeline’s integrity, when he was lost in the proverbial dark wood. A citadel where he could observe himself from a distance, ignore the selfish complaints of his ego and consider his options. Now there was only one option that came to mind. What he should have done from the beginning.

“All right,” he said. Then again, determined to engrave the sentiment into his mind. “All right. It’s forgotten.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Spock’s relief was palpable. Showing emotion, but in all the wrong ways.

“Is that it, Mr. Spock?”

A brief moment of hesitation, and a passing glint in Spock’s eyes that Jim couldn’t begin to decipher. “I would like to request additional shore leave time.”

“When?”

“Preferably now.”

“There isn’t much time to be had,” Jim said, perversely thankful for an excuse to talk shop. This was his job. This he could handle. His command settled over his shoulders, a heavy comfort, a suit of armor.

“I am aware,” Spock said. “Everything scheduled until final docking is routine. I do not expect my absence to foster any serious inefficiencies.”

Jim made a noncommittal sound to smother the words that threatened to escape him. I want you here. I need you here. I’m about to be put out to pasture and I’ll lose my mind if you aren’t there with me when the gate slams shut. No, he was going to respect Spock’s wishes this time if it killed him.

Meanwhile, Spock had gone on listing reasons as he proffered a PADD. “I have never voluntarily utilized any of my allotted shore leave. The timing is ideal for transportation purposes. I will be able to use public cruiser from Callisto rather than deprive the  _Enterprise_ of a shuttle. Also, I–”

“Approved,” Jim said, because he couldn’t take another excuse. Because he couldn’t justifiably say anything else. He took the PADD from Spock and skimmed the request form, barely reading it until one line caught his eye.

Destination: Vulcan.

Jim found himself at a thorny crossroads. If he asked why Spock was headed home, he would be prying and making things even worse. If he said nothing, the question would eat at him for the next – he checked the form – two weeks, four days. In the end, he pretended the document was a simple inventory and scribbled his signature.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Jim almost flinched at the honorific. There was no fondness in it, no familiarity or warmth. It sounded far too much like the first time Spock had ever addressed him.

He handed over the form mechanically, and in that instant, was struck by the bizarre but powerful notion that Spock would step out his door and straight into a void. As if Vulcan were the edge of the known universe instead of a bustling Federation planet, and would swallow him whole.

Good, the spiteful and wounded shards of himself snapped. Get out, and take your cowardice with you.

But his better nature just wanted to touch Spock. Embrace him, kiss him, pin him against the wall so he couldn’t leave. Even a handshake would be better than nothing. Any gesture that acknowledged they had spent the best years of their lives and careers together. Some small kindness to reinforce the precarious fable in his head that nothing had changed between them.

He wanted it more than anything. So badly he knew he would never be the same if he didn’t act on it.

He watched Spock leave without another word.

***

“Captain, I’m picking up a distress signal. Four oh four mark six.” Uhura’s announcement snapped everyone on the bridge to attention faster than a splash of ice water.

“Yellow alert, shields up.” The words were a formula to Jim, as simple as breathing. He uncrossed his legs and scooted forward in his chair, his body flooded with nervous energy. Colors sharpened, sounds turned unnaturally crisp, and he felt awake for the first time in days. “Keep going, Lieutenant.”

“Urgent. Assistance requested. Engines and life support failing,” she relayed. “The carrier wave looks like it’s from a passenger cruiser.”

“They are wery close, sir,” Chekov offered from somewhere behind his right shoulder. “Less than two parsecs.”

“Acknowledged, Ensign. Plot a course to intercept, Mr. Sulu. Warp eight.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Tell them we’re on our way, Ms. Uhura.”

“I’ve been trying to hail them, sir. No response,” she said. Jim peered over his shoulder and watched her brow furrow in concentration. “The message is looping. It might be pre-recorded.”

“Mr. Sulu, look for any passenger cruises scheduled for travel in this sector,” he said.

A few tense moments passed as Sulu searched the Federation trip database. “One StarSail class.” His voice turned grim. “There are three cases of these  __ships failing at random in the past year, sir. Catastrophically so.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.” Jim knew the story through his occasional correspondences with Areel, who was heading up the prosecution against StarSail. Poor construction by an unethical shipyard, she told him. Litigation was ongoing, but in the meantime a lot of shady transport ventures were still using the ships with their clients none the wiser.

Jim rubbed his jaw and frowned at the viewscreen as the stars streaked past. He had rushed in blind before during far more threatening situations, but the ones where civilians were involved made him the most uneasy. Every person under his command was well aware they could die in the vacuum – those on the career track almost expected it – but families en route to a grandparent’s planet or weary businessmen headed home had never made that kind of mental commitment.

“Dropping to impulse now,” Sulu said, before Jim could banish some disturbing sentiments from his mind.

The stars compressed to points on the main viewer, and their target materialized out of the gloom. It would have been a sleek-looking vessel if the back half wasn’t blown apart into a twisted, blackened mess, illuminated by showers of sparks. Jim didn’t have to see inside to know what was going on; lights strobing madly, red alert sirens blaring, emergency airlocks slamming shut with people trapped behind them. The agonized groan of metal drowning out all speech, all coherent thought.

“Keptan, scanners are picking up wery high levels of radiation,” Chekov warned. “It looks like the buildup to a warp core breach.”

Jim almost turned toward the science station to request a second opinion, but he stopped himself halfway. Chekov  _was_ the science station, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time in the past few weeks. He really didn’t need to see another person in that chair right now. Salt poured into a still-fresh wound, and he floundered for a moment at the sting. “How many life signs, Ensign?”

“Fifteen, sir. A few are faint.”

Just enough people to require three rounds of transport. A little less than a minute’s exposure next to a ticking time bomb. “Lock on, but don’t lower shields yet,” Jim said. He flipped the red alert button, flinching at the wail. “Uhura, alert the transporter techs. We need this done fast or not at all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, get Mr. Scott down there too.”

“Already there, Captain,” she said, projecting the faintest hint of humor over the bridge. Good old Scotty, always thinking ahead.

“This data, sir,” Chekov’s voice was tentative as he spoke up again. “It… it looks like a core breach is imminent. She could go up at any time.”

Just like that, any small comfort from below decks vanished. The eternal dilemma of a starship captain reared its ugly head and leered at knowingly at Jim. Hundreds of lives versus a dozen or so, and no accurate scale in the universe with which he could measure them. He had been here before, overcome this before, but those memories were strange to him now, like dreams that only made sense for an instant after waking. He studied the wounded ship, his mind as dark and empty as the space that surrounded them.

“Sir, what should we do?” Uhura said.

Half a dozen people watched him, their faces creased and eyes wide with concern like surreal, fearful masks. They were frozen in time, poised mid-action, waiting for his word to break the spell. What was his word?

I don’t know, he thought.

“Get them,” he said.

Sulu dropped shields, and Uhura barked an order through the com, and Jim braced himself for disaster. He fixed his gaze on his chair’s tiny console screen, watching the data feed as the constituent atoms of six people were whisked across empty space to safety. The percentages crawled uphill. Too slow. Everything was happening too slow.

“Shields up,” Sulu said. Except he didn’t get to the second word before a brilliant flash whited out the viewscreen.

Jim was momentarily blinded, even with the screen’s automatic light filters. Then the shockwave hit the shields, and the bridge quaked. Dismayed cries mingled with the low rumble of a ship under tremendous stress. A thin film of dust fell from the ceiling. Jim curled in on himself, screening his eyes behind his arm until the worst of it passed.

The StarSail was gone. In its place were shreds of debris, expanding outward, haloed by the glowing smear of an energy cloud. Jim could see some of the larger pieces swerve at improbable angles as they ricocheted off the  _Enterprise_ shields. He wet his lips and swallowed, but his mouth was so dry that both actions were nearly impossible.

He found the com button with one trembling finger. “Report, Mr. Scott,” he said.

A few unbearable seconds before the response came through. //Three casualties, sir. Injured before we got them, I think. The rest are just shaken up.//

Jim clung to the arms of his chair and released the breath he had been holding. “Any damage?”

//Nothing serious. We’re running on backup power, and the shockwave might’ve scrambled the sensors, but–//

“In that case, please report to the bridge. You have the con.” Jim closed the channel and shot up out of his chair. He took his leave, vaguely aware of Uhura’s voice trailing him, asking a question he couldn’t begin to answer: “Where are you going, sir?”

Only within the seclusion of the turbolift did he allow himself to slump against the wall. He kneaded his forehead with both hands for a moment, still blinking away the ghostly afterimage of a ship going nova. All the adrenaline dumped into his system was fading fast, and the persistent, hollow ache behind his ribs felt sharper in its wake.

How long had he hesitated? Five seconds? Ten? Long enough to make a difference?

Any longer, and the  _Enterprise_ …

By the time he reached his quarters, his legs were about to give out. He sat down hard on the bed, and the rest of him crumpled without conscious thought. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat. His heart drummed staccato against his chest. He felt like he had just run a marathon over rocky terrain, chased by some nameless, alien terror.

He didn’t fall asleep so much as toss and turn until his desk console chimed. Probably another interview request, one more member of the media swarm that was gathering around their final missions like flies to a carcass. On the other hand, it could be some angry admiral demanding a report on what the hell just happened, so Jim reluctantly summoned it to his bedside screen.

Both predictions were wrong. He read the opening line twice and was cast into freefall. A message from command that confirmed what he already knew: Spock wasn’t coming back.

***

“Resigned?” McCoy grinned across Jim’s desk. He probably thought it was a prank. Jim passed over the PADD and settled back in his chair, staring at his hands.

Silence ensued for what felt like a very long time.

“Well,” McCoy said, and faltered. His face slowly morphed into a frown. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then tossed the PADD onto the desk and crossed his arms, every action a tight, condensed burst. “All I see here is a load of bureaucratic hogwash. What’s  _Spock_  have to say about it?”

“Nothing, apparently.” Jim shrugged.

“No. No, that can’t be right. He’s got to have a reason. A damn good one.” McCoy jabbed the desk with an index finger, as though he could point to the answer embedded in the wood grain. “Spock always has a reason.”

“Maybe.”

“Dammit, man! What’s the matter with you? Your first officer mysteriously calls it quits a month before final docking and all you can say is ‘maybe?’”

“What am I supposed to say, Bones? It won’t make a difference.”

That shut the doctor up for all the wrong reasons. Now he squinted at Jim, an unspoken question in his eyes. Jim lowered his gaze and schooled his face into what he hoped was neutrality. He knew it wasn’t convincing, but he couldn’t play upset under false pretenses without getting too close to the truth.

“You know,” McCoy began awkwardly, “you can always talk to me, Jim. No matter what it’s about. I’m saying this as your friend, not your doctor.”

Jim did a mental double-take, and felt the beginnings of a cold sweat prickle at his forehead. Surely McCoy didn’t know? Then again, Jim had underestimated the man before. He wondered if this was how zoo animals felt, always subject to inspection without their knowledge. “Of course,” he said finally.

Another pregnant pause.

“I don’t care what happened, he’s not getting away that easy.” McCoy seized Jim’s desk console and spun it around in a sudden explosion of movement. He started tapping on the controls, grumbling all the while. “I’ll hound M’Benga for some important Vulcan contacts. I’m not above harassing his folks, either. We’ll figure this out. He’s an ambassador’s son – _someone_  on that godforsaken planet must know what he’s up to.”

“And then what?” Jim muttered wearily.

“I’ll message him, of course! Something nice and confrontational about how humans are the superior species. The hobgoblin never could resist an argument.”

“I think you’re speaking for yourself there, Bones.” An instinctive smile tugged at Jim’s mouth even though it didn’t go further than skin deep.

“It takes two to tango,” McCoy scoffed.

There wasn’t a dignified retort to that, so Jim leaned back and watched the doctor work. For a fleeting moment, the stubborn, aching pressure around his chest eased. If anyone could conjure a miracle, it was Bones.

But not long after the doctor left with a self-satisfied bounce in his step, the mirage that surrounded him dissipated. Jim shouldn’t have let him send all those messages. He shouldn’t have acted so nonchalant in the first place. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this, that he would leave Spock alone and they’d both be better off for it. Struggling only tightened the noose.

Jim paced back and forth for awhile, his throat half-blocked and his head throbbing. He hadn’t fully understood the nature of their relationship until it was too late: unbreakable under pressure, but easily shattered with a single, quick blow. The PADD caught his eye where it rested on the desk.

He snatched it up and threw it at the wall. It bounced off and hit the floor, screen flickering briefly but otherwise undamaged. Jim stared at it for a moment, part stunned and part incredulous. He had hoped for something more satisfying. Shattered glass or warped metal. A mess to clean up. The standards for equipment construction must have gone up since his Academy days.

He picked up the device and turned it over in his hands with infinite care, as if merely handling it would do what a collision with solid duraluminum couldn’t. His eyes started skimming the resignation notice yet again, and he keyed it away only to land on the next official communiqué in his inbox. Nearly two days old, overshadowed by more pressing concerns. He considered it now, and it felt like glimpsing a guiding star through the clouds.

Maybe an admiral’s stripes wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.


End file.
